Home Is Wherever I'm With You
by bearfeathers
Summary: A collection of Merlahad & Percilot one-shots and tumblr prompts. Current chapter: "Three Hail Marys and a Hallelujah." After six years, Merlin and Harry finally get down to the business of discussing where they went wrong. (Merlahad)
1. Kintsukuroi

**For the language prompt: Kintsukuroi—(Japanese) to repair pottery with gold, with the understanding that the piece is made more beautiful by having been broken.**

* * *

Not for the first time in recent months, Merlin finds Harry bowed over his desk, his head in his hands. Though he'd come prepared with an update on Lancelot and Galahad's assignment, he decides there are more pressing matters at hand and closes the door behind him with a soft click. He pauses by the doorway, trading his tablet for the pitcher of water on the table and filling one of the matching glasses.

Harry knows he's here, Merlin's certain of that, but he remains quiet as Merlin makes his way across the office.

"Have you had any aspirin?" Merlin asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

Harry deigns to answer him only with an unhappy, undignified grunt. In truth, the question hadn't really needed to be asked, but Merlin had posed it all the same, hoping that for once he might be surprised by the answer.

Placing the glass of water at Harry's elbow, he dips down and pulls open the middle drawer on the left side of the desk. The bottle is where it always is, resting at the front of the drawer, undisturbed. He shakes out two pills, placing them beside the glass of water before returning the bottle to the drawer and stepping away from the desk.

"Take those," he says, walking towards the windows. He begins drawing the blinds, pulling the curtains tight over them so that not even a sliver of light might slip through. Without looking away from his task, he adds, "Finish the glass."

There is a soft snort before Harry croaks, "Yes, mother."

It's become a nearly practiced routine by this point. Time after time, Harry will sit and do his very best to wait out the dull throb in his left temple, waiting and waiting until it's like a vice on his whole head from which Merlin must pry him loose.

"I don't understand why you do this to yourself," Merlin says quietly as he returns to the desk, the room bathed in a comfortable darkness.

"You know very well why," Harry says, his tone accusatory and pinched with pain.

Well, yes, that's true. But Harry is a stubborn man at the best of times and getting him to talk about this requires some needling. If Merlin has to play dumb to do that, he considers it well worth his time.

"Here," he says, reaching toward the other man.

Gently, he brushes Harry's hands aside. Their Arthur's graying hair is unkempt from where his hands had been buried in it for so long and Merlin takes a brief moment to run his fingers through it, doing what he can to return it to something approaching tidy. Harry sighs, leaning into the other man's touch, and soon enough Merlin's fingers are gently kneading and massaging, doing what he can to help ease his partner's pain.

"Cold hands are a sign of poor circulation, you know," Harry murmurs, eyes closed. "You really ought to see Morgana about that."

"Cold hands can also be a sign of typing for hours in a very cool room," Merlin says. "Besides, you don't seem to mind them all that much now."

He slides one hand around the back of Harry's neck, pressing lightly at the base of his skull. Harry offers an appreciative groan, one that brings a faint smile to Merlin's face.

"Come away from your desk," he says. "Just for a short while."

Harry puts up a brief protest, as always, but in the end they wind up on the leather couch just the same as they always do. In the dark and quiet, with his head in Merlin's lap and Merlin's hands working their magic, Harry begins to relax. The pain is slow to leave him but that comes as no surprise to either of them. What does is Harry's sudden admission.

"I'd have thought I'd be healed by now," he says.

Merlin's hands pause, caught off guard by Harry's sudden willingness to approach the subject that they always wind up dancing around.

"That was an estimation," Merlin reminds him. "Head wounds are unpredictable, Harry. There's no saying one way or another how someone may heal from them."

"But this is really getting to be too much," Harry argues. "I've been patient. I've done everything Morgana has prescribed, I've submitted myself to your constant mothering and still I find I'm…"

Merlin can feel the dull throb of the vein in Harry's temple beneath his fingers and shushes him quietly. Harry relaxes, marginally, breathing out a heavy sigh to relieve some of the tension he'd built up in himself.

"I have difficulty focusing. I can hardly see out of my left eye. My reflexes are dulled. Not to mention these…_ infernal_ migraines that come without warning. They were supposed to have grown fewer in number by now and yet here they are, as frequent as ever," Harry says, frustration leaking into his voice. "How am I to be a proper Arthur if—"

"No," Merlin cuts him off, resting a hand on his forehead. "That's enough, Harry."

Harry doesn't want to stop. He wants to yell and scream and curse the unfairness of it all. But Merlin's tone won't allow him to continue.

"Morgana gave you an approximation of where you might expect to be six months down the line," Merlin tells him. "But you conveniently seem to have forgotten that she also said there would be some parts of you that would never heal, parts of you which might never be the same as they were. That's difficult to hear and more difficult to come to terms with, but don't ever think that you are of any less worth for your broken parts. Ask anyone here and they'll tell you just how much you're worth to them."

"I don't very much like being broken," Harry mutters.

"I'll take you broken and here to the alternative," Merlin says quietly. He brushes his hand back, off of Harry's head and through his hair. Harry's eyes open at the action, gazing up at Merlin with an intensity that belies his pain. "You ask too much of yourself and give yourself no credit for the things you've accomplished. Healing takes time, inside and out."

Harry makes a soft noise of disagreement. "I just… It's difficult. Not being the same man I was."

"Would you laugh at me if I told you that I believe you're a better man than before?" Merlin wonders aloud.

"You had some issues with my character beforehand?" Harry snorts.

Merlin gazes down at him with patient amusement. "Not so much as I believe that an event such as this one changes people and that you've changed for the better. It can just as easily change someone for the worse and you've come through it all with a sense of… dignity. Strength. Understanding. Change can be painful, but it's not always a bad thing, Harry. Being a changed man doesn't have to be a punishment, even if those changes are difficult to deal with."

Harry doesn't answer straight away. Merlin knows they could talk themselves hoarse and he would still find something to be unhappy about. He can't be blamed so much for that—he's in pain and frustrated by his apparent lack of progress. But if Merlin can just remind him of how far he's come so he might instead focus on that rather than how far he may yet have to go, then the conversation will have served its purpose.

Merlin is curious when Harry reaches for his hand, but feels himself relax when Harry places a kiss to his wrist, just above his pulse point.

"I'm sorry, you must think terribly of me for all my complaining," he says.

"Anything but," Merlin assures him. His fingertips lightly trace over the scar tissue to the left of Harry's eye. "Well, save for when you whine about how I let the dogs sleep in our bed—"

"Merlin."

A small smile comes to Merlin's face at the way his name is spoken: chastising, but laced with fondness. Yes, Harry Hart is a changed man. A broken man, in some respects. But for all of that, Merlin finds he loves him every bit as much as he had before—and more, in fact. Words could never adequately describe how Harry's loss had left him feeling as though he were walking around with a gaping hole in his chest; a dark, sinking void that couldn't be filled and consumed everything around it. He's tried, but every explanation he's offered feels lacking.

It's difficult to explain how Harry's apparent death has altered Merlin's perception of him. He thinks it might sound silly if he were to say that something as simple as listening to Harry breathe beside him in bed or even the scratch of his stubble when he leans in for an early morning kiss before showering have become moments to be treasured. Where before they were routine, mundane, everyday occurrences, now they're bright little beacons through the course of the day. There's a beauty in his restoration of life that Harry can't seem to see and Merlin can't seem to explain to him. Simply the fact that he is here and alive is in itself more precious to Merlin than words could do justice.

"Where would I be, I wonder," Harry says softly, breaking his thoughts, "without you? What would Arthur do without his Merlin?"

"Mope and drive yourself mad with pain, I'd imagine," Merlin answers. "You're a terrible patient."

Harry smiles.

Merlin smiles back.

And perhaps words aren't needed after all.


	2. Unheimlich

**For the language prompt: Unheimlich—uncanny, mysterious, arousing superstitious fear or dread, uncomfortably strange.**

* * *

Harry isn't prone to superstition. Not in the slightest. His mother—rest her soul—had been the old fashioned sort, clinging to superstitions and omens and the like, all passed down from generation to generation. His father had tolerated it, and may have secretly even subscribed to one or two of them, but Harry had no time for such nonsense.

Which is why it's the furthest thing from his mind as he prepares to see Merlin off on his assignment with Eggsy and Roxy. Harry had done everything in his power to see that it needn't come to this, but in the end, Merlin's task couldn't be accomplished from Central—it would need to be seen to behind enemy lines.

"You're fretting," Merlin rumbles as he finishes knotting his tie.

"I don't fret," Harry corrects him. He walks over and reaches out, needlessly straightening Merlin's knot. "It's simply that I find it an unusual change of pace—you out in the field and me here, watching."

"Just because Arthur liked to keep me homebound doesn't mean I'm incapable of handling myself in the field, if you'll recall," Merlin reminds him.

"I'm very much aware. We all remember Vienna," Harry says with a nod of his head.

Merlin sighs, resisting the urge to tease. Teasing is what they're used to doing, how they're used to handling worry and stress. It's how they've been forced to operate for so long, it's a difficult pattern to break. Relationships between Kingsman were strictly forbidden and so they'd danced around each other for decades, coming close several times but speaking aloud about what it was that they had between them. With Harry having claimed Arthur's seat, that rule has been—perhaps a bit self-indulgently—done away with and they've been working jointly to tear down the walls that so many years had built up between them. Not that it's easy going. It's strange to wake in the mornings and find Harry still in his bed—their bed—rather than hurriedly flying out the door in the middle of the night after a hurried, needy shag, afraid to be caught together for too long.

This is something else altogether, this domesticity. Which is not to say he doesn't love every moment of it, but simply that it's something he was never quite certain they'd have. How many years of their lives had been spent hanging on a 'maybe someday'? How many arguments had that brewed between them? And now he can stand here and place his hands at Harry's waist as though they ought to be there, without fear of punishment, without fear of being found out.

"We'll be back before you miss us," Merlin assures him.

"Ah. And there is your first lie of the evening," Harry says, his eyebrows lowered in a look of mock disapproval. "I already miss you."

Merlin snorts, a smile tugging at his lips. "I'll make it up to you."

"Will you, now?" Harry inquires with an intrigued purr. "And how exactly might you do that?"

Merlin's eyes travel upward, gazing at the ceiling in thought before he leans in, taking several long moments to whisper something in Harry's ear. Harry chuckles as Merlin draws back, wishing he could have had that Scottish brogue tickling his ear for a short while longer.

"Well, in that case, you should leave at once," Harry says, playfully shooing him towards the door. "So that we can get down to the business of you making this all up to me that much sooner."

There's a heavy knocking at the door, interrupting whatever retort Merlin had prepared, and from the other side comes the muffled sound of Percival's voice.

"Arthur? Merlin?"

"Come in, Percival," Harry calls.

Merlin dutifully steps to Harry's right, his hands folded behind his back as Percival opens the door. He gazes upon the two of them with a look of barely restrained amusement.

"Believe me when I say that no one is happier than I since you two have decided to shack up," Percival drawls. "But perhaps you can keep your hands off one another for longer than five minutes? Really, the children have been standing out here waiting for ten minutes now."

"Just because the rest of you are old…" Eggsy huffs, elbowing his way around Percival with Roxy close behind. "But yeah, can we…?"

"You're both prepared?" Merlin inquires.

"Have been," Eggsy says, his eyebrows rising suggestively. "For the past ten minutes. When you said to meet you."

Roxy shakes her head, a smile playing across her lips as she adds, "Yes, we're prepared, Merlin."

"Alright, then I suppose we'll be off," Merlin declares. "Arthur, you'll be minding us?"

"Every step of the way," Harry declares. He leans towards the young Kingsman conspiratorially as he says, "Try not to put the old man through too much, eh? He's not at young as he used to be."

Merlin clucks his tongue at the jab but simply ushers Eggsy and Roxy out the door, coming up close behind them. Soon enough, Harry finds himself alone in his office, smothered by silence wishing he'd been joking when he'd said he missed Merlin already.

* * *

Harry has found Merlin to be a creature of habit, sticking to routines and carving himself a nook with which to make himself comfortable from day to day. Which is how he knows exactly where to find his wizard's favorite tea cup. It's old enough, having been in Merlin's possession since Harry had brought it back to him from Japan in 1992, but it's been well cared for by its owner and has stood the test of time. Settling in to watch the monitor, Harry thinks it's permissible to temporarily use the cup himself and as he pours his tea he wonders when he'd gotten so blasted sentimental.

The mission has gone well so far and is very nearly at its end. Roxy and Eggsy had brilliantly handled themselves, allowing Merlin to get right where he needed to be. So it is that he watches as Merlin places the thumb drive in their target's computer, his long, nimble fingers gliding effortlessly over the keys as he performs the extraction.

Silence and patience are key now, and though he himself has performed similarly routine missions hundreds of times, he finds his pulse quickening all the same. Because he's not the one on this mission. Not that he believes Merlin, Eggsy and Roxy to be anything but capable, but there's something about having the situation completely out of his hands that makes it all so utterly nerve wracking.

No wonder Merlin had no hair.

He nearly leaps out of his seat at the sudden noise to his left, the sound of something shattering. He turns quickly, only to find that Merlin's teacup is the culprit—it lies in its saucer, the contents spilling over the desk and cracked nearly in two. A slow frown makes its way to his face as a childhood memory resurfaces, unbidden.

It was a bad omen, his mother had said, for one's teacup to split so. It spelled trouble for the owner. But Harry didn't believe in such nonsense, never had. So why, then, does his heart beat that much faster in his chest?

Another noise draws his attention, this time from Merlin's feed. There comes the sound of breaking glass and Merlin's head whips up to find the source of it. There is a blur of motion as soon as he lays eyes on the gun aimed at him and from there it is the sound of crashing and gunfire and shouting and Harry is out of his seat in an instant, teacup forgotten.

"Lancelot, Galahad, double back to Merlin," he barks.

How had this happened? They'd had every inch of the place covered, how had they missed this? He can hear Merlin's heavy breathing as the gunfire ceases, sees the bodies laid out before him. Then the gunfire comes again, though doesn't last as long this time, and Eggsy and Roxy appear on Merlin's feed. Eggsy gives him a hand up and Harry breathes a soft sigh of relief.

"Status," he says.

"All clear," Merlin reports. "It seems like we weren't the only ones after this prize tonight."

"Dunno who they are," Eggsy adds on. "Not MI6, it looks like."

"The thumb drive?" Harry inquires.

"Intact," Merlin affirms. "I can finish the extraction so long as I have another three minutes uninterrupted."

"Very well, then—"

"Arthur, Merlin's been shot," Roxy cuts in sharply.

_"Lancelot,"_ Merlin hisses.

"Merlin," Harry barks. "When I asked for a status report—"

"I gave it to you," Merlin butts in. "It's manageable. As I said, I can finish the extraction with three minutes uninterrupted."

Harry hesitates. He knows he hasn't got time to sit and mull it over, but there's a very good chance Merlin is making light of a serious injury. Yet they can't afford to walk away from this empty handed, especially not when it seems they aren't the only ones here tonight.

"Alright," Harry says. "Galahad, take the east corridor. Lancelot, on Merlin. Three minutes."

They all answer in the affirmative and get to work immediately. As he watches Merlin type, Harry reflects that this has to be the longest three minutes in recent memory. He switches over to Eggsy's feed, pleased to find that their young Galahad is taking care of their last minute guests satisfactorily. He switches to Roxy's feed, hoping to catch a glimpse of where Merlin had been shot, but finding her busy with her eyes on her surroundings—as she should be. She takes out the few that manage to make it to their location, before they ever even catch sight of Merlin and Harry silently praises her skill.

Merlin's breathing sounds far too loud in his ears and he eyes the clock beside him anxiously, counting the seconds. At last, after what feels closer to an hour than a handful of minutes, Merlin draws away from the keyboard and reaches to retrieve his thumb drive. It's here that Harry picks up a soft, nearly unidentifiable grunt of pain and his worry increases tenfold.

"Finished," Merlin declares.

"Make your way towards the east corridor. Galahad has carved a nice path for you," Harry instructs them. "Lancelot, keep an eye on the windows; they seem fond of making an entrance."

The remainder of them are taken care of with little trouble, but as they exit the building, Harry finds himself with an entirely new problem to deal with.

"Harry, don't be alarmed, but we're going off the feed," Merlin announces, sounding short of breath. "Galahad, Lancelot, turn them off. Now."

"What? You're doing no such thing," Harry returns, forcing every bit of authority that he can into the words.

"It's only a short while, you'll survive."

"Lancelot, Galahad, do _not_ follow that order," Harry says angrily.

But the feed has already gone dark.

* * *

It's nearly an hour later that their trio arrives and Harry walks out to receive them, spitting mad. He has several particularly venomous comments prepared, but finds they escape him the moment he catches sight of them. Percival hurries past him, moving to help Eggsy and Roxy who are supporting Merlin between the two of them. Roxy has a cloth pressed to Merlin's hip, liberally soaked with red and Harry's feet finally seem to get the message to move.

"You terminated your feed," Harry says angrily. "You deliberately disobeyed my order."

"Lancelot and Galahad were following my instruction," Merlin says, his voice strained. "Don't take it out on them."

"Alright, we can debate the chain of command later," Percival says brusquely. "For now let's get Merlin down to Morgana before he bleeds all over the place."

"Galahad, assist Percival in transporting Merlin to the infirmary," Harry says. "Lancelot: a word."

He doesn't look as the three men hobble away like entrants in a three legged race, not wishing to see any more than he has to at the moment. He'd like very much to drop everything and be the one to see to it that Merlin got to Morgana, but duty demands that he wrap up this mission first and anger makes him stubborn. He leads Roxy to his office, shutting the door behind them with perhaps a little more force than is necessary.

"The thumbdrive?" he inquires.

"Here," Roxy declares, holding it out to him.

He takes it, studying the object briefly and noting where she had tried to clean the blood away from it. He places the drive on his desk before turning to look back to Roxy who, to her credit, does not bow under the weight of his anger.

"You disobeyed my order," he repeats. "Why?"

Roxy hesitates a fraction of a second before responding, "If I could be candid?"

Harry waves impatiently for her to continue.

"Merlin requested that we terminate our feed for your benefit," Roxy reports. "He claimed that you had done the same to him on several occasions and that the less you saw, in this case, the better."

"And if something had happened? If you had failed to effectively lose your pursuers? What then, Lancelot?" Harry asks, his tone cutting.

"I suspect we would have resumed visual," Roxy says curtly. "Sir."

Harry's jaw jumps as he bites back an angry tirade. He knows that Roxy isn't the one he's upset with. Nor Eggsy, nor Merlin, in fact. He's simply looking for a target to vent his frustrations upon, and choosing Roxy is hardly fair. To her credit, she doesn't seem to stand for it and her unwillingness to give in to his wrath allows him a moment of clarity.

"In the future," Harry says, forcing his tone to remain calm and level, "my orders supersede Merlin's, no matter the situation. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," she says. When she doesn't make a move to leave, he lifts an eyebrow questioningly, prompting her to speak. "If I had truly thought there was anything you'd needed to see, I would have left the feed running. Eggsy, too. All we wanted was to return to Central as soon as possible, with as little fuss as necessary."

"I understand," Harry says, dipping his head in a nod. "You're dismissed, Lancelot."

She hovers uncertainly for a few moments longer before taking his silence as proof that no further conversation would be had and slipping out of his office. Harry takes a heavy seat at his desk and, after requesting that Morgana keep him posted, pours himself a drink. Roxy—and by extension, Merlin—hadn't been wrong. How many times had Harry sustained an injury while on assignment, only to cut his feed to spare Merlin the sight? And how often had he returned to Merlin's frightening, though rarely witnessed temper because of this?

Perhaps he'd rushed to anger, but then, that's nothing new about him. Especially not when it came to Merlin's safety. They'll be having a long talk, he knows, but for the time being he can only wait.

* * *

"Here's the bullet I dug out of his hip," Morgana says, shaking a plastic baggy in front of his nose.

Harry tuts unhappily, taking the horrific souvenir and studying it briefly before pocketing it. "How is he?"

"Sleeping now," Morgana tells him, motioning for him to follow her. "He lost a fair amount of blood; the bullet lodged in his pelvis and caused some lovely fracturing. He'll be in some pain and it will take time to heal, but so long as he gives himself that time, he should recover well enough."

"I'll see to it that he does," Harry says.

Morgana stops him there, just short of the room where Merlin is. Harry can see him through the window on the door, but the short, matronly woman before him commands his attention.

"Don't you go exciting him now, Harry Hart," she chides him, rapping his knuckles with her clipboard. "You've no idea how many times I had to calm him down after he'd worked himself into a tizzy because you'd gone and left him in the dark again. Well, now you know just how that feels, don't you?"

"Yes, mum," Harry responds, earning himself another whack of the clipboard. He fights back a smile as he says, "I promise, I'm not setting out to start an argument. But we do need to talk."

"That you do," Morgana agrees. "I don't know how you plan to explain that you've broken his favorite cup."

"Now, wait just a moment, that was hardly my fault," Harry protests. "It broke completely of its own accord."

Morgana chortles. "You'd best come up with a better explanation than that."

Harry most certainly does _not_ scowl at her retreating back, but instead makes his way into the room before him. He's certain to be quiet, so as not to disturb his slumbering partner, but Merlin appears to be in a deep enough sleep that Harry could slam the door should he so choose. There's no need to move a chair to sit beside the bed—there's one there already, waiting for him. A comfortable one, at that. Briefly, he wonders if they've really become that predictable, and decides it hardly matters as he settles in for what he's sure will be a very long wait.

He's nodded off several times himself by the time Merlin wakes. A faint groan rouses him from where his chin had met his chest and he blinks hurriedly to clear his vision. Reaching between the bars, he finds Merlin's hand and holds it in his own, waiting patiently. Merlin's head lolls towards him and he blinks his eyes sleepily, likely missing his glasses as he tries to focus.

"'lo," Merlin mumbles.

"Hello," Harry returns with a faint smile.

"Thumb drive?" Merlin asks, clearing his throat.

Harry almost laughs at that. Of course—business as usual.

"Safely in my possession, thank you," Harry assures him. "You needn't worry about that now."

Merlin hums, something soft and noncommittal. His eyes slide shut once more, but he blinks himself awake a minute later and begins shifting sluggishly in his bed.

"You want to talk," Merlin guesses, his voice still heavy with sleep. "About the feed."

"Merlin."

"I know you were—"

A sharp hiss of pain cuts his sentence short as his restless squirming has aggravated his injuries enough to cut through the protective fog of morphine. Harry's on his feet in an instant, one hand planted in the center of Merlin's chest, the other being crushed by Merlin's strong grip as he tries to get him to lie back and lie still.

"Easy, easy does it now," he shushes. "You're not going to want to be moving much for some time, I'd imagine."

"Imagine not," Merlin says through clenched teeth.

There are a handful of tense minutes as they wait for the pain to pass, until gradually Merlin's expression eases into something more comfortable, his grip on Harry's hand not quite so tight as it had been. Harry's thumb strokes his partner's knuckles soothingly, watching as Merlin forces himself to relax.

"I know you're expecting me to be angry. And I am," Harry tells him. "But I also understand that what you did, you did out of concern for me and to expedite the process of returning to Central. It's also been brought to my attention that I've done the very same to you quite a few times over the years. So I believe you'll understand when I say that I'm angry, and hurt, but that I fully understand and accept your decision. For now, I believe we can leave it at that."

Merlin sighs heavily at Harry's admission, that last sliver of tension leaving his body. Now is not the time to argue. Their mission hadn't gone at all the way it was supposed to, but Merlin will heal and that's all that matters to him now. Although, there is the small matter of the tea cup.

"Besides," he says quietly, "I may not be the only one with cause to be angry."

Merlin's eyes fly open at that, finding his and managing to be sharp and piercing despite the heavy blanket of medication.

"Harry," Merlin croaks. "What've you done?"

Guiltily, Harry reaches down into the bag beside him and withdraws the remains of Merlin's tea cup. The two halves sit sadly in the saucer and Merlin quietly stares at them with a more mournful look than harry can recall in recent memory.

"That's my favorite tea cup," he says.

"Yes," Harry says.

"You've broken it."

"No, actually, it broke itself."

"…Harry."

"It was an omen, Merlin. It split straight down the center just before you were shot."

"Oh, come off it, Harry you don't even believe in such things."

"Would you be less upset if I claimed that I did?"

"No," Merlin says sleepily. "And I expect a new cup."

"I'll get you a whole set," Harry informs him.

"Just one," Merlin murmurs.

"Just the one, then," Harry agrees.

Merlin fades soon after and despite his best efforts, Harry follows along shortly behind.

Morgana is right—Merlin takes time to heal. He's at least a marginally better patient than Harry, so his recovery goes fairly smoothly. There are times when Harry catches him limping, a hand pressed to his hip and a grimace on his face, but as the weeks wear on, those moments become fewer and farther between.

There is no argument, no angry words, but there is discussion. Ground rules must be laid, it seems, and they reach an agreement: the feeds stay live, no matter how bad it may be. And really, in retrospect, there were plenty of injuries Harry had sustained where he would have done well to have Merlin's level brogue in his ear.

Harry does get him that new tea cup, but the remains of the old one are stored carefully away high on a shelf in his office. The broken pieces of china bear no supernatural power, no negative aura, no ability to alter their futures, but it does have the power to serve as a reminder. Harry Hart is not a superstitious man, but that's a power he's willing to believe in.


	3. Oxfords, Not Brogues

**For the prompt: Merlin embarrassed about his rough Scottish accent among the other posh English recruits like Harry.**

* * *

Although he may not be jumping and clicking his heels, Harry is certain there must at least be a noticeable spring in his step as he and Merlin exit their hotel. It's rare that he and Merlin are assigned to work together, for whatever reason, and being that this is only their second outing together since Barcelona, he's feeling like that cat that swallowed the canary.

"I think our mark may suspect something is amiss if you skip towards them," Merlin notes, his voice tinged with amusement.

"I'm not _skipping_," Harry insists. "I'm merely pleased at the chance to work with you again."

Merlin quirks an interested eyebrow at that. "Are you, now?"

"Oh, don't start. You know very much how I feel about you. You're not like the others. You're interesting," Harry explains.

Merlin gives him a strange look at that—one whose meaning Harry can't quite pin down—but being that they're approaching their mark, he finds himself with no time to dwell on it. He greets the Swedish couple enthusiastically, shaking each of their hands in a firm, friendly grip and doing his best to ramp up the charm. He motions to Merlin, standing at his side, and introduces him as his business partner… which is when things get strange.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Merlin says, shaking their hands. "Gregory's told me a great deal about your company and I must admit I'm eager to tour your facilities."

Merlin says this, yes, but not in the thick, Scottish brogue Harry has come to admire. Instead, the words emerge in a crisp, clean British accent. He stares for a moment, his expression slack, before he catches himself and works to repair his blunder.

"You'll have to excuse me," he says, his voice filled with laughter. "It's just that Simon's had a devil of a head cold for the past week and I think that may be the first time I've heard him speak proper since! Must be all this lovely fresh air doing him good."

Their marks laugh, clearly tickled by their antics, and Harry can only be thankful that his attempt to save face went so well. As they head off together with the intent of getting drinks and talking business, Harry wonders what all that had been about. Unable to do anything to compromise their cover, he decides to go along with it and makes a mental note to have a long, long discussion with Merlin at the first chance he gets.

* * *

"Why on earth did you fake an accent?" Harry asks as they sit together at dinner.

"I'd have thought it was obvious," Merlin says, his brogue back in full force. "For the sake of our cover."

"Clearly, but _why_?" Harry presses, topping off Merlin's wine glass and then his own. "What difference should it make to them?"

"If we're meant to be persuading them into believing we're wealthy business partners, your accent beside mine won't do," Merlin explains, the stem of his wine glass held between long, slender fingers. "They're going to be a mite suspicious if one of us sounds like he graduated Oxford and the other sounds like he crawled out of a gutter in Glasgow."

"I suppose I see your point," Harry says with a frown.

Merlin says nothing more, looking away towards where some couples have taken to the small dance floor in the center of the room and sipping quietly from his glass. It's a good enough reason, and yet… there's something more there. Something that means Harry can't quite put it aside yet. And then it strikes him: Merlin is embarrassed. His choice of words is proof enough of that. Harry frowns, trying to think of something to say, something that might nudge Merlin towards opening up about the subject. It's as he's contemplating the matter that a new song starts and he has his idea. He rises from his seat, shooting Merlin a charming smile as he does so.

"Would you care to dance?" Harry asks, holding a hand out.

There is a minute shift in the younger man's demeanor at his words; not uncomfortable, not quite, but far from the relaxed mood of the evening. He looks to be in no great hurry to leave his seat and Harry's offered hand is left awkwardly hanging in midair.

"I don't dance," Merlin replies.

Ah. So that's it.

"Don't dance," Harry says slowly, his palms resting flat on their table as he leans in towards Merlin, "or can't dance?"

Harry doesn't miss the way the muscle of Merlin's jaw jumps at the question. If he had seemed unwilling to move from his seat before, he is positively glued to it now.

"You should let me teach you," Harry says, his light smile barely masking a predatory edge. "I don't doubt it could be an enjoyable learning experience for you."

"Actually, I have work to do. And so do you," Merlin says sharply, rising from his seat as though he'd just sat on a tack. "Goodnight, Galahad."

So he's back to Galahad, then.

"Don't be like that, Merlin, it was just—"

"A joke yes. You seem to have plenty of them. As do the rest of your friends," Merlin says crisply, his eyes cutting into Harry like so many knives. "Goodnight, Galahad."

Harry is left alone, standing beside their table and watching Merlin hastily retreat through the crowd. So much for being excited to work together.

* * *

It's close to an hour after merlin had left him that Harry finds his way back to their hotel room. He could have followed close behind, but he'd assumed that Merlin would appreciate some space and that giving the matter some time to settle would do them both well. The wizard's call to come in when he knocks doesn't sound uninviting, but it hardly sounds thrilled, either.

Merlin doesn't even so much as glance at him as he walks into the room, taking his time with removing his jacket and loosening his tie. The younger man seems to be engrossed by the files in his lap, deep into the work he'd claimed he needed to do. Harry hovers uncertainly, trying and failing several times to initiate a conversation before giving up and heading over to his own twin bed. He flops back gracefully, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling with his hands folded over his stomach.

"I really meant no offense, Merlin," Harry says at length.

"One doesn't always need to intend offense to cause it, sir," Merlin says, not bothering to look up from his work.

At this, Harry's frustration finally bubbles over and he sighs annoyedly, "'Sir,' 'sir,' why must you always call me 'sir'?"

"Because whatever you may think of me, I at least know how to follow orders."

"Orders?" Harry echoes, shooting up from where he lies. "What bloody orders?"

Merlin raises an eyebrow, looking up at Harry as though he's gone mad.

"Arthur's, sir. Knights are to be referred to by their code name or 'sir' if not both," Merlin says slowly.

For a moment, Harry's brain fails to process this. And then he sees red. The old Merlin had never been required to call any of them 'sir' but then, he'd been one of them, hadn't he? Harry has no doubt that Merlin has a chip on his shoulder, but it's obvious now that Harry's been made a fool.

"You don't ever call me 'sir' again, do you understand?" he says darkly.

Merlin's eyebrows knit together in confusion, "But Arthur—"

"I don't give a _damn_ what Arthur says!" Harry explodes, jumping to his feet. "You do _not_. Call. Me. Sir."

Merlin watches him warily, apparently unsure of how to respond. Harry can't blame him. Here he's been teasing and prodding as though Merlin is no different from the rest of them all while the wizard had been playing by different rules. That and shouting at him probably have done little to help his case.

He sits himself on Merlin's bed, hovering at the foot in the event that he's unwelcome, but Merlin makes no move to throw him off. He watches Harry silently, patiently, his eyes guarded.

"Arthur is... He doesn't understand. Really, none of us do, but him least of all. I thought I did and that was foolish of me," Harry tells him, his hands folded in his lap. "I've treated you as I would any of the others, thinking that would make you more comfortable. But we _are_ different, you and I. Our experiences are. And I will try to be more mindful of that in the future, but please believe me when I say that I do truly believe you to be every bit as worthy of being here as the rest of us. More so, in some cases. An unpolished diamond may not look as valuable, but it's worth just as much as the ones that are."

"Well, actually, an unpolished diamond isn't—"

"Yes, yes, it was a horrible analogy, shut up," Harry gripes, pinching the bridge of his nose with a sigh.

When he looks up again, Merlin is watching him quietly, work forgotten. He looks at Harry as he had on that night in Barcelona with that open, unguarded expression that he's come to realize is a very rare thing indeed. For a moment, Harry has half a mind to lean in and kiss him, to take him back to that time and that place, but he stops himself short. Best not to chance it after a night like tonight. Another time, perhaps.

"Thank you, Harry," Merlin says quietly, any hint of formality having dropped from his voice. "For what it's worth, I could stand to learn not to be so... quick to judge."

Harry nods, accepting the apology, and for a moment they simply sit watching one another in comfortable silence. After a time, Merlin dips his head, staring down at his own hands as he fiddles with his pen.

"I don't suppose that offer of dance lessons still stands?"

Harry grins at that, holding a hand out as he'd done hours before. There's no music, save for his humming, but Merlin hardly seems to mind.


	4. Hey Jealousy

**prompt! Merlin assigned on a honeypot mission and Harry telling himself, no, I am not jealous of this girl he's having a simple, innocent interactions with.**

* * *

"Alright, fine," Eggsy says, his tone exasperated. "You're not going to tell me about Barcelona. But can you tell me _something_ so I don't feel like a complete knobhead for wasting my week trying to find out about it?"

Percival regards the younger man thoughtfully. In the brief span of their acquaintance, he's come to find that Eggsy is many things, and not least of all stubborn. But beneath that, beneath that quest to embarrass his mentor at all costs, Percival knows Eggsy cares for and respects Harry the same way a boy would his father. And not just Harry, no. He's seen Eggsy hanging around Merlin's lab more times than he can count, straddling a chair backwards and watching their wizard work.

So Percival decides to throw him a bone. Can't have him thinking _too_ highly of them, now, can he?

"I don't suppose you've heard the story of the honeypot mission in France in '96?" Percival asks him.

"No," Eggsy says, suspiciously. "Why?"

"Merlin was the one chosen to seduce the target," Percival says, a smug smile curling at his lips. "And Harry blew the mission because he was jealous of said target."

"Wot," Eggsy says, his eyes as round as saucers.

"Oh yes," Percival says, his voice a pleased purr. "It was quite a spectacle."

"I don't suppose you'd like to share this spectacle?" Eggsy asks, leaning in eagerly.

Percival nods towards the stove. "Put a kettle on and then we can start."

* * *

**[TOULOUSE, FRANCE; 1996]**

Percival is not especially fond of honeypot missions if he's being honest with himself. Yes, it's something they all have to do now and again, but that doesn't mean he has to enjoy it. It all seems a bit unsavory to him. Kingsman are supposed to be gentlemen, and there's something very un-gentlemanly about seducing someone for the sake of an assignment. Be that as it may, it remains necessary, and so here they are.

Well, here _he_ is, anyway. If there are three of them on this assignment, why does he feel like the only one who's doing any of the actual work? Merlin is busy engaging in quiet flirtation with their mark, but Harry… Harry's about to get them blown.

Galahad stands rigidly by the punch bowl, his jaw squared as he stares across the floor. They're supposed to be blending in, subtly observing, and yet there he stands, fair to burning eyes in the back of their mark's head. With a barely contained sigh, Percival glides across the dance floor towards him, expecting to pull him out of whatever stupor he's in, when it happens.

Merlin says something—Percival's not sure what—and their mark laughs, leaning in closer to him and saying something right back, her hand moving from where it had been at Merlin's knee to slide up his inner thigh. At the same exact moment, there is the sound of breaking glass and when Percival turns his head to look, he's greeted with the sight of Harry Hart, his face a mixture of perplexity and anger as the remains of his shattered punch glass lie at his feet or embedded in his palm.

Percival swears under his breath as he cuts through the crowd, grabbing Harry by his bicep and fairly dragging him towards the loo. He stealthily pulls two napkins from the tables they pass and thanks whatever deity may be watching that the stalls are unoccupied and they've got some privacy. He locks the door behind them as Harry takes to the sink without direction, hissing as the cool water hits the wounds.

"What the hell is the matter with you?" Percival demands.

"He's uncomfortable," Harry grouses, allowing Percival to inspect the damage.

Percival sighs heavily. "_I'm_ uncomfortable. I'm fairly certain we all are. But there's a mission to consider and your standing there looking fit to cave someone's face in is not what I would call conducive. Honestly, Galahad, what's gotten into you?"

"He's _uncomfortable_," Harry repeats firmly. "Merlin is more than capable of handling himself in this situation, so the fact that he's letting on… Something's not right, Percival."

"He looked perfectly at ease to me," Percival says, gently pulling shards of glass from Harry's hand with the tweezers he'd pulled from his jacket. "What makes you so certain something's wrong?"

"Merlin, he…"

When Percival glances up, Harry's face is twisted in a grimace—one which his gut tells him is not entirely due to the glass in his palm. Whatever he's about to say, it's not meant for Percival's ears and is carefully, quietly tucked away in favor of something else.

"I've worked with Merlin in the field on more occasions that you have, so believe me when I say I've learned how to tell when it's all gone to shit," Harry tells him.

"And you're certain it's that and not that you're jealous Merlin's whispering sweet nothings into her ear instead of yours?" Percival asks pointedly.

Harry's nostril's flare at the accusation, his face going a few shades redder. Percival looks back down to his work, plucking the remaining shards of glass from Harry's hand with a delicacy that says he's had to do this before.

"I'd always wondered what had happened in Barcelona," Percival drawls. "But I think I can make an educated guess."

Harry tears his hand away, his expression positively venomous. Percival doesn't blame him. Harry is probably registering this as an attack, but in truth, it's anything but. Percival had held his suspicions about the two of them—especially with the way mention of 'Barcelona' was thrown around—but this just confirms it. He sighs, leaning his hip against the sink.

"I'm not looking to out you, Harry," he assures him.

"And just why should I believe that?" Harry demands.

"Let's just say," Percival says slowly, "that were I to do so, I would be doing myself no favors. You're hardly Arthur's only disappointment in that arena, Harry."

Harry's eyebrows shoot nearly to his hairline. "You?"

Percival hands him the cloth he'd dampened. "When I was at Cambridge. He was… Well, he was him."

The silence that follows is louder than the noise of the party outside could ever hope to be. Percival doesn't tell him the full story. No, they don't have time for that. Mostly he doesn't feel like admitting he'd fallen in love like a complete and utter fool with a man who had only been looking for a bit of fun. It had been his own fault. But that was neither here nor now.

He knows that Harry's reservations don't simply come from having a relationship with another man. No, it's deeper than that. It's the fact that Merlin is, quite simply put, not one of them. He hadn't come from where they had. Oh yes, Percival knows just how Arthur feels about Merlin. Which is why he knows that Arthur discovering

"Besides which, you seem to be underestimating my fondness for our wizard," Percival says with a slow, smug smile. "And for you."

"Percy," Harry says, looking thoroughly humbled—not an easy feat with Harry Hart.

"Come on then, we've left him on his own long enough," Percival says. "Bind up that hand and let's see about this business of things going to shit."

Harry is uncharacteristically silent as they leave the men's room, following behind Percy until they've got Merlin in their sights again. Only it seems while they were gone, things had, in fact, gone to shit. To the casual observer, it would seem simply that their mark were getting rather comfortable with Merlin, but Percival's trained eye can see the Glock 26 pressed under his ribs. Merlin's eyes flicker towards them briefly, the message of 'stay away' coming through loud and clear.

Well, they've been blown. Not much to do now besides cleanup. If Harry had been simply jealous before, he's close to a raging bull now, but be that as it may Harry would never dream of allowing his temper to result in Merlin coming to harm. Percival knows this.

He's counting on it.

* * *

**[PRESENT DAY]**

"—and I really think the bit where Harry shot our mark in the leg was more out of revenge than necessity, but Harry will deny it to his last," Percival finishes, sipping his tea.

"Christ," Eggsy says, tea forgotten on the counter by his elbow. "How'd you explain it to Arthur?"

"I spun him something convincing enough; the mission was shot from the get-go, Harry figured it out before I did and we were lucky to get out of there with our lives," Percival answers with a shrug.

"Not the Toulouse story again," Merlin sighs, appearing in the kitchen with his mug.

"Don't pretend like it's not one of your favorites," Percival tuts.

"I don't have to pretend," Merlin says, refilling his mug with the still-hot tea. "Having a concealed weapon jammed up under my ribs was not the evening I'd anticipated. All because Harry couldn't keep his bloody eyes to himself."

"Oh, admit it. You liked it a little bit," Percival says, his grin widening.

Merlin offers him a long-suffering look as he stirs milk and sugar into his tea, but doesn't disagree. Instead he taps his spoon against the side of his mug before using it to gesture towards Eggsy.

"Stop filling his head with all these stories," he says.

"As an elder Knight, is it not my duty to instruct my youngers?" Percival asks innocently.

"Yeah, Merlin," Eggsy adds, his smile absolutely devilish. "Innit?"

Merlin snorts, plucking a biscuit from the plate between them before turning on his heel and making a swift exit from the kitchen. Percival watches him go, his smile lingering. He's not more than ten paces out the door before Harry appears from an adjacent corridor to join him. They walk closely beside one another, more one being than two as they each lean in towards the other. It's a happy change. One that does his heart well to see.

"So in the spirit of instructing your youngers," Eggsy interrupts smoothly, "maybe you could tell me about Barc—"

"Good talk, Eggsy," Percival says, taking his tea and all but fleeing from the kitchen.

He can hear Eggsy calling for him to come back, but he has no intention of doing so. The Toulouse story is his now, but Barcelona? Not even Percival is willing to touch that one.


	5. Weighted

**A young Scotsman is asked to make the choice that all final Kingsman candidates are asked to make.**

**This is a follow-up to Lywinis's "Handler." (archiveofourown dot org /works/3812251/chapters/8496160) Because we've decided Merlin is a dog hoarder and there's really no going back.**

* * *

**[CENTRAL, ARTHUR'S OFFICE; 1983]**

Arthur waits patiently in his seat, gazing pensively into the fire as he waits. Truth be told, he'd never expected the boy to make it this far. There is a certain tenacity among the lower class which must be accounted for, he supposes, but all the same, this is where it would end. It would go no further. He had given the boy his chance, he had owed him that much, and now his debt would be repaid.

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

He looks up at the sound of the thick, Scottish brogue. How he hates it. How it grates on him. But he smiles, gesturing towards the chair opposite him.

"Have a seat, boy."

His eyes follow the young man as he enters the room, watching his stride and the five dogs which follow obediently in his wake. There are no leashes in sight. When he sits, they sit. His posture remains straight-backed and attentive, his eyes fixated on Arthur from behind his spectacles.

"I must admit, you've made it quite a great deal further in the selection process than I'd ever thought you would," Arthur tells him.

The boy dips his head in acknowledgement. It's not a compliment. He knows that. With the drink in his hand, Arthur motions towards the dogs at his feet.

"They seem rather well trained," Arthur says. "Surprising, considering you took on five of them."

"Dogs respond well to those who treat them well, sir," the boy says with a slight shrug of his shoulders.

Arthur nods. "You've come to care for them."

"Yes, sir."

"Love them, even."

"Yes, sir."

Arthur reaches for the Browning pistol on the table and hands it to the boy. The young man accepts it cautiously, his eyes flickering to Arthur's as though for guidance and receiving none. Arthur motions again to the dogs.

"Shoot the dogs."

The boy's eyebrows flick upwards in surprise. He looks to the five dogs sitting on the carpet, each one of them gazing back up at him, their tongues lolling out of smiling jaws. His attention returns to the pistol in his hands. He weighs it as thoughtfully as he weighs his decision and as a deep set frown begins to form on his face, Arthur knows he'd been right. A short few moments later, the boy rises from his seat and flicks the safety back on before returning the pistol to Arthur.

"I knew you hadn't the stomach for it," Arthur tells him.

"No, sir," the boy replies. "If that's all, sir?"

"That will be all," Arthur says. "You can see yourself to the door. There's a car waiting at the gate with your things."

The boy nods and turns on his heel, making for the door. He pauses before he leaves, lingering as though there's something else he wishes to say before he's gone.

"One last thing, if I may, sir?"

Arthur arches an eyebrow. "Go on, then."

"While I respect that you didn't expect me to make it as far as I did in the selection process, I do have to express my disappointment in _you_, sir," he says.

"Do you, now?" Arthur asks.

"I must admit that I'm offended you believe me incapable of differentiating the weight between a Browning carrying live rounds and one carrying blanks," the boy says smartly.

"You knew, then," Arthur says with some surprise. "And you still didn't shoot."

"No, I didn't," the boy answers. "Goodbye, sir."

A sharp whistle gets the five hounds moving out in a single file march, with the boy following them just behind. Arthur reaches to refill his tumbler. He'd known the boy wouldn't have the stomach for it; it just turns out he'd been even more right than he'd thought.

* * *

"And we're just going to let him go?" Harry asks, watching the young Scotsman loading five dogs into the car.

"We have our Gawain," Merlin says. "You know how the selection process works, Galahad. He made his choice."

"But…"

Harry's eyes travel to the car as it begins to drive away from them. He'd really grown to like that one. He'd been different from the rest. In the rougher, less privileged sense, yes, but also in that he drew Harry to him like a magnet. Something he doesn't believe had been at all one-sided.

"Surely there must be some way we can keep him?" Harry asks. "You're not honestly going to let that kind of brilliance just wander out your front door. What if MI6 picks him up instead?"

"It's not up to me, Harry," Merlin says, drawing away from the bannister. "It's Arthur's decision. Although…"

Harry looks to him expectantly, noting the way the old man's eyes have taken on a thoughtful twinkle. Whenever you saw that, you knew what was going to happen: trouble, if you were Arthur; a great deal of fun, if you were Harry Hart.

"Let me talk to Arthur," Merlin says at long last. "I might just have something."

* * *

The young man's flat is in a neighborhood that is, well… not one Harry would like to be in after sundown. Not one he'd like to be in at all, really. He pounds a fist on the door, waiting for some kind of answer. Several moments later, he hears the sound of latches—a great deal of them—being undone before he is greeted with the sight of the young man they had turned away. He's dressed casually now, standing on the stoop in sweatpants and bare feet. He colors at the sight of Harry, embarrassed, it seems, at having been caught dressed so.

"Mr. Hart," he says, dipping his head respectfully.

"Just 'Harry' will do, please," Harry insists.

He sees the five dogs behind the young man, all watching him carefully. Well, not just him. At his feet, Mr. Pickles gives an appreciative yip at the chance of some company. Harry clears his throat.

"I have a job offer for you," Harry says.

At once, the young man's expression shifts to something flat and unamused. "I've seen your job requirements, thank you."

"No, no, this is something a bit different," Harry says, unwilling to lose him. "No shooting your dogs required."

"Mr. Hart—"

"Harry."

"Harry, then," the boy says with a patient sigh. "Much as I appreciate what you're trying to do, I can tell when I'm not wanted. That I'm actually rather good at."

"I want you," Harry blurts.

He sees the tip of the Scotsman's ears go a shade of pink that he's certain his cheeks must match.

"What I mean by that is… you have a talent, you see, that I believe would be invaluable to the Kingsman," Harry explains, willing himself to make this seem as professional a gesture as possible. "Arthur can't see it. He's old, set in his ways, blinded by all… this."

Harry gestures around them.

"And he's wrong for it," Harry continues. "You could be the best of us, if only given the chance, and I'd stake my life on it."

"It was my understanding," the young man says slowly, "that there would only be a call for candidates in the event of the loss of a Knight."

"Merlin," Harry says soberly. "Aneurysm. Inoperable. He's not sure how much time he's got left, but he'd like to train a successor before he goes and he'd taken quite a shine to you. I believe you would be well suited to the position."

The Scotsman regards him thoughtfully, warily, as though not quite sure what to make of the offer. Harry resists the urge to shift from foot to foot, not wanting to seem anxious. It's Mr. Pickles who breaks the ice, drawing their attention when he wanders towards the young man and paws at his pant leg.

"Would you, ehm… Would you like to come in?" he asks.

"Yes. Thank you. I would," Harry says.

The young man steps aside, offering him a soft, barely-there smile as he enters. Well, Harry thinks, he'd better get used to calling him Merlin, then.


	6. Fallout

**This one's a follow up to "Sentiment" (archiveofourown dot org /works/3812251/chapters/8601970) by Lywinis. It's part of an overall 'verse we have going, getting it all out in bits and pieces and having a blast doing it.**

* * *

"Well done, Eggsy," he hears Merlin say. "Harry would be proud."

Eggsy hopes he would be. From his understanding, Merlin would be the man to know, so he decides he can safely take the wizard's word for it. But for the time being, there are prisoners to rescue and a very lovely young princess who owes him a kiss. He jogs through the halls, past the bodies of Valentine's fallen soldiers, until he reaches the first cell. Of course it's locked, needing a number pin to open it.

"Merlin, could you give me a hand here?" he asks.

He waits for some kind of response—the cell door clicking open, a number spoken in his ear, something—but receives only silence.

"Merlin?" he tries again, worriedly. Nothing. "_Merlin_."

When his third attempt fails to elicit a response, he tears away from the prison door and rockets through the corridors as fast as his legs will carry him. He knows Arthur had worked Merlin over something fierce, but he'd seemed… well, he'd seemed as though he could manage through this. And now Eggsy's beginning to wonder if that hadn't just been a front.

His heart is hammering in his chest as he pulls himself up the jet's stairs and into the cockpit. When he emerges into the cabin, his stomachs sinks like a lead balloon at the sight of Merlin slumped over his console.

"No, no, no, no," Eggsy breathes, hurrying to his side. He slips shaking fingers beneath the wizard's collar, searching for a pulse. "Come on, Merlin. Come _on_."

It's takes him longer than he'd like to find one and the sluggish thud against his fingers is anything but reassuring. He takes a deep breath, trying to decide what his best course of action would be. Attempt to stabilize Merlin himself? Pilot the jet back to Central straight away? Hope that one of the prisoners is a doctor? He shakes his head, willing himself to calm down. He can't help Merlin like this and he'll be damned if he loses him, too. Deciding that getting Merlin away from the console and lying down is his first step, he pulls the chair back and kneels to take the older man's weight. Merlin may be lean, but he's _heavy_—the sort of heavy that makes Eggsy wonder, briefly, what he's been hiding under that ridiculous jumper of his. Merlin doesn't stir as Eggsy heaves him over to the sofa, only increasing the young man's worry. With some of the injuries he'd seen, he'd expected something out of him, but there he lies, still and silent as the grave.

"Okay," Eggsy says to himself, unfastening the older man's collar. "Okay, we'll get through this."

"Yes, we will."

Eggsy wonders at Percival's uncanny ability to silently, suddenly appear wherever he's needed, but decides now isn't the time to question it. His breath leaves him in a rush at the sight of Percival and Roxy standing before him. With their timely arrival, Merlin's chances don't seem quite so dire.

"Eggsy, I need you to get us off the ground. Set a course for home. Once we're safely in the air, set the jet on autopilot and join us in the cabin. Roxy, remove the paneling on that back wall, bring me whatever emergency equipment you find there," Percival says, shucking his jacket.

Eggsy shares a look with Roxy, knowing she shares his fears—that they'll have to actually _use_ some of that equipment. But they both know there is no time to dawdle and move quickly to their given tasks. Eggsy slides into the pilot's seat, resisting the urge to look over his shoulder to see what Percival is doing. Instead, he focuses on doing what the older Knight had asked: getting them off the ground and headed home.

"What about the people Valentine held prisoner?" Eggsy calls.

"The other Kingsman have the coordinates and are en route. They'll handle the rest," Percival calls back.

At least that's one thing off his mind. He hadn't fancied the idea of leaving he-doesn't-even-know how many people behind, still locked in those cells. Then there's the matter of the remaining Kingsman. Can they be sure that Percival had chosen correctly? Can they be sure those Knights are really on their side and not the late Arthur's? Percival had been trusted by Merlin. Merlin had been trusted by Harry. And Eggsy trusts Harry. It'll have to do.

The moment Eggsy is able to switch to autopilot, he steps away from the cockpit, coming to join Roxy and Percival in the cabin. The sight which greets him is not a pretty one. Percival is absorbed in his work, fingers deftly wielding needle and thread to sew up reopened wounds. Without the dark pilot's jacket to mask them, Eggsy can see just how extensive Merlin's injuries are.

"It's a wonder he could stand," Roxy says, looking particularly uncomfortable as she mops away blood and puts pressure on the wounds that Percival has yet to see to.

"If he were like anyone else, I'd agree with you," Percival says distractedly.

"Suppose he is stubborn," Eggsy agrees.

"That's not precisely what I meant. Merlin doesn't experience pain the same way as you and I," Percival corrects him, remaining focused even as he speaks. "There was an assignment in the late eighties, the result of which was that Merlin suffered permanent nerve damage. We discovered it when he and I were on an assignment sometime after and a bullet passed through him without him feeling anything more than a slight bit of pressure. He's lucky he didn't bleed out."

Beneath blood and new wounds, Eggsy sees a spot of scar tissue on Merlin's right side, just below his ribcage, and wonders.

"There are times when he feels no pain. Then there are times when the pain he feels is… amplified. And because of that, Arthur had him pulled from active field duty by the nineties," Percival explains. He wipes at his forehead with the back of his hand. "So while some of it is certainly the fact that he will bull through anything that he thinks he needs to, I'm certain that this had a hand in helping. Or hurting, rather."

It feels strange, Eggsy thinks, to stand and watch the two of them work because there's nothing he can do to help, nothing he can do that wouldn't be getting in the way. He almost doesn't want to look on as Percival continues to try to put Merlin back together as best he's able, like shoving everything back into place and stitching him up will see him right as rain. Arthur had certainly known what he was doing when he'd tied Merlin to that chair. Even with the threat of Merlin's timer sending the encrypted files straight to the other Knights, he'd taken his time. Probably enjoyed it, too.

"Shit," Percival mutters, eyeing the monitor beside him. "Eggsy, you recall how to work the bag valve mask?"

"Yeah, is he…?" Eggsy wonders aloud, grabbing the item in question.

"_No_," Percival says, a little too fiercely. "But he's having some difficulty breathing on his own, so let's fix that before it becomes any more of a problem."

They'd been taught this, but putting it into practice on the man who'd tested them on it is surreal. Eggsy squeezes the bag at consistent five second intervals, his gaze darting between Percival and Roxy's faces before he glances down at Merlin. Not once since Eggsy had found him has he so much as twitched. The images from Kentucky still fresh in his mind, Eggsy does whatever Percival asks, praying it will be enough to get them back to Morgana in time.

* * *

Their return flight had seemed to last a hell of a lot longer than the flight there, but at long last they touch down. Morgana is waiting for them on the tarmac, stretcher and aids at the ready, her expression tense, her mouth drawn into a thin, unhappy line. The second the jet's door is opened and the stairs lowered, she takes over, commanding her troops like a General at war.

Eggsy has respected Morgana since the moment he'd met her and it's in moments like these that he knows everyone around him shares in that respect. He stands back with Percival and Roxy, watching as they load Merlin onto the stretcher. They follow behind the stretcher as Percival relates back to Morgana everything they'd been able to do for him. When they reach the doors to the infirmary, however, their progress is halted.

Morgana leaves them there, disappearing inside to take her patient to surgery and requesting that the three of them get some rest; it's going to be a long wait. The three of them hover at the doors, standing silently, the weight of everything that's happened today bearing down upon them. After a few minutes of this, Percival turns to cast his gaze at them.

"You two go get cleaned up. Get something to eat. Sleep," he instructs. "I'll stand watch."

"We can wait here," Roxy insists.

"We won't be hearing anything any time soon. You've both had… quite a day. You'd do well to give yourselves time to recover," Percival counters.

"How're we supposed to relax? Harry's dead. Arthur betrayed us. Merlin's…" Eggsy says, gesturing towards the door.

"You need time to decompress," Percival says, his voice monotone but his eyes somber. "Go."

"Uncle Martin—" Roxy starts.

"Go," Percival repeats, firmer this time. After a beat he sighs, resting his hands on Roxy's shoulders. "I promise I'll come get both of you when there's word. Now, go, please."

Roxy seems to give in at that, offering him a reluctant nod, and Eggsy finds himself following her example. They leave Percival standing at the doors, his back to them as he stands like a statue and waits. As they're walking through the halls—which seem so eerily empty now—Eggsy thinks to ask about what had caught his attention.

"Percival's your uncle?"

Roxy looks up as though she were surprised he'd even spoken. "Not exactly."

Eggsy waits for an explanation. She sighs, tucking her hair behind her ear.

"The previous Lancelot, James Spencer, was my uncle," she says slowly. "Percival—Martin—was his…"

"Oh," Eggsy says, a bit dumbly. It's like the further he looks, the more layers of hurt he uncovers to this day. "How long?"

"Years," Roxy says with a tired shrug. "Since I was little. He was always Uncle Martin to me. Their relationship was never anything official—it wasn't allowed in Kingsman—but I always knew."

There are a few moments of silence between them.

"I think Merlin and Harry might've," Eggsy blurts. "I don't have any proof, and maybe they weren't, but—"

"They were," Roxy confirms. "Sometimes my uncles would speak of them when they thought I wasn't listening. But I was."

The rest of the walk is made in silence. They return to the barracks; the ones for recruits, despite the fact that neither of them are anymore. Especially not after today. The room is empty, all the beds free, but they sit shoulder to shoulder on one bed, not feeling particularly like being alone. It's a gradual shift—a hand on the knee, an arm around the shoulders—until they wind up hugging each other fiercely, drawing strength and comfort from one another in the silence of the barracks and the wake of all that's happened.

Today has been the first of what they know will be a series of bad days. But they've come this far together and they will go further yet.


	7. Sunday Morning Coming Down

**For the prompt: harry/merlin + cigarettes**

**Warning: Character death mentioned.**

* * *

**[CENTRAL, 1992]**

Merlin watches the downpour from beneath the awning, wrapping his arms more tightly around himself. Despite his jacket, the chill still gets to him, but he's not ready to back inside just yet. He pulls the cigarette from his lips with shaking fingers, exhaling slowly into the cold, wet air. His eyes itch, begging him to shut them, but he can't. Not just yet. It's been days since he'd last slept, but every time he closes his eyes he sees Lamorak's lifeless eyes staring back at him.

Smoking is not something he makes a habit of, but once in a great while he finds himself needing one. Only on days that call for it. Today is a day that calls for it.

"Those things are terrible for your health."

It shouldn't be a surprise that Harry's found him. Harry always does. Galahad comes up from behind him, hand shoved deep in the pockets of his long coat. When he reaches Merlin's side, he takes the cigarette from between Merlin's fingers and bring it to his own lips, taking a long, satisfying drag before handing it back.

"Absolutely terrible," he repeats.

"You know, you could always just have your own instead of nicking mine," Merlin grumps.

"A Kingsman shouldn't smoke," Harry answers.

"Oh, is _that_ why Arther lets me get away with it," Merlin says in mock astonishment.

"Merlin," Harry says, his gaze stern and disapproving.

"I know. I know," Merlin says impatiently, waving him off. "I'm just running my mouth, you know that."

From the corner of his eye, he can tell that Harry knows it's more than just running his mouth, but wisely chooses to remain silent on the matter. It's a talk they've had many times and a talk they'll have many more, but now is not the best time. They've only just recovered Lamorak's body, grief weighing heavy on all of them.

They stand in silence for a time, sharing a single cigarette between the two of them. Merlin focuses on the sounds around them to keep himself grounded in the present; the heavy patter of rain, the whistle of the rain between bare branches, the rumble of distant thunder. This is here, now. But it had been then and there, too. Rain coming down heavy, soaking Lamorak to the bone, making the soil beneath his feet loose, lightning flash as his only source of illumination, making it too dark for him to see just how close he was to—

"Merlin."

Harry's voice is firm, his grip on Merlin's arm even more so. Merlin realizes he'd been drifting. His hands shake so badly now he can't hope to claim it's simply from the cold.

"It wasn't your fault," Harry says, softer than before.

"I wasn't able to do anything," Merlin says. "Stuck here, I can't do anything. I have to rely on what any of you can tell me over the comm and then what? What am I to do when you can't speak to me? When you can't tell me what you see? I'm meant to guide you, but how am I expected to do so blinded? I may as well shoot each of you in the back now and be done with it."

"Perhaps it will surprise you to know, but we're not exactly children, Merlin," Harry drawls. "We don't need you to hold our hands."

"I'm well aware," Merlin says, scrubbing a hand over his eyes, "how well trained each of you are. That is _not_ what I am talking about here."

"You can't do everything," Harry reminds him. "No one expects you to."

"Given that I'm now useless as a field agent, it's only fitting that I take on more responsibility. I only do what Arthur expects me to."

"Arthur can take a long walk off a short pier for all I care."

"Harry, don't. You don't mean that."

"And who are you to say what I do and don't mean?" Harry asks, rounding on him. "When did you last sleep?"

"Harry—"

"Two days? Three?" Harry presses, stepping closer to him.

"Stop this," Merlin says. "I mean it, that's enough."

"Longer, then? Christ, how can he expect you to form a coherent sentence, let alone guide someone through an assignment?" Harry demands.

"That's not your concern," Merlin says tightly.

"It's very much my concern if Arthur pushes you so hard that your exhaustion gets a man killed," Harry growls.

Merlin's mouth goes dry at the words. It had been one thing to think it himself, but quite another to hear someone else say it aloud. Harry's expression softens marginally, his mouth opening to say something further before his jaw snaps shut and he looks away, thinking better of it. After a few beats he looks back to Merlin, his eyes somber.

"I don't believe that's what happened," Harry says.

Merlin laughs bitterly. "I made a mistake. That mistake cost Lamorak his life."

"You couldn't have known," Harry says. "Sending him through the forest was the best available option at the time. I've examined the scenario myself and I would have given him the same instructions."

"But you wouldn't have instructed him to head southeast," Merlin says.

"…no, I wouldn't have," Harry admits quietly. "But I was also approaching the problem with a full night's sleep, a full belly and a shower under my belt."

Harry's hand comes up, his fingers tracing Merlin's jawline, dragging along stubble that he hadn't had time to take care of. He knows he looks a mess. He _is_ a mess, really.

"You couldn't have known the rain would cause the soil to shift like that," Harry tells him.

"I should have," Merlin says, eyes fixated on the cigarette smoldering between his trembling fingers.

Harry sighs, reaches over and plucks the cigarette from his hand before tossing it into a puddle a short distance from where they stand. "That's enough of that. Thomas and Morgana are speaking to Arthur about this matter; I'm taking you to your flat."

Merlin should argue, should protest, should claim he needs to see this through first. Instead, he stares down at the remains of the cigarette floating in the puddle, already bloated and waterlogged. He tries not to think of Lamorak's body, left in the rain for two days. He nods.


	8. Springtime

**Just a quick (and slightly dirty) little something.**

* * *

Harry rolls off Merlin, dropping onto his back beside the younger man, chest heaving. For a moment, he simply catches his breath; eyes shut, skin slick with sweat, feeling deliciously sated. He can hear Merlin breathing heavily beside him and turns his head to glance at his partner.

Merlin has a hand pressed over his eyes, still clutching loosely at the bedsheets with the other, looking every bit as worn out as Harry feels. Harry allows his eyes to roam freely, taking in every inch of bare skin laid before him as though he hadn't just become intimately acquainted with it. He finds he simply can't get enough of Merlin's lean physique, his nimble fingers, and legs so long that they give Harry's a run for their money.

He rolls onto his side for a better view, molding himself to the wizard's side in the process. He can hardly believe that they've just done this. It's not as though he hasn't slept with people on missions outside of honeypots, but… this is different. This is something else altogether. Sleeping with Merlin hadn't just been sex; for him _or_ for Merlin.

It's their first time since Barcelona, the first time they'd been able to admit to each other that it hadn't been as much of a mistake as they told themselves it was. It's been years since they've had this and it's every bit as good as he remembers. Better, even. Better now that they can admit whatever it is between them won't be going away any time soon. It won't be easy and perhaps they've made more trouble for themselves with this, but Harry can't go back to how it was before. Thinking back to the way Merlin's eyes had borne into his as he'd pressed Harry to the wall, he doubts Merlin could imagine going back either.

But thoughts of later are not for now. Not when he has a Merlin, a bed and plenty of moonlight left. His eyes dip down—drawn to the sight of the come smeared on Merlin's stomach, his legs still slightly parted, his prick lying limp against his thigh—and take in each detail hungrily.

"It's rude to stare," Merlin says, peeking between his fingers.

Harry's drawn in by those eyes, that green hazel which should be unremarkable but which instead remind him of fresh earth and green shoots bursting forth from beneath, like a constant springtime. And surely it must be spring, for what else could explain this feeling which blossoms in his chest whenever their eyes meet?

"Is it now?" Harry purrs.

"Yes, it is," Merlin responds, amused. "So are you going to stare all night or say what's on your mind?"

"What's on my mind? I'm simply wondering: How is it," Harry says, still somewhat breathless as he lightly traces a finger up the underside of Merlin's cock, "that I've only just had you and yet I'm desperate to have you again?"

Merlin moans faintly, hips lifting off the bed just a fraction, back bent in a beautiful arch.

"Oh, fuck me," he breathes.

Harry chuckles, leaning in to kiss him. "That's the idea, darling."


	9. White Feather

**When hit with an experimental fear toxin, Percival finds himself unable to complete his mission, but he's far from alone.**

**From Wikipedia:**

**"A white feather has been a traditional symbol of cowardice, used and recognised especially within the British Army and in countries associated with the British Empire since the 18th century, especially by far-right nationalists and early feminists in order to humiliate men who were not soldiers. It also carries opposite meanings, however: in some cases of pacifism, and in the United States, of extraordinary bravery and excellence in combat marksmanship."**

**I thought the duality of the symbolism fit nicely with the theme of the chapter. Taken in the traditional sense it means one thing, but entirely the opposite in another sense. Some of the older, more traditional members of Kingsman might say Percival abandoned his mission; turned tail and ran. But I suspect Harry and Merlin would think the opposite... don't you? ;3**

* * *

**[LEEDS, ENGLAND; 1993]**

Martin sags against the wall, breath coming in a sharp whine as he slides downward, bespoke catching on the grime of the damp alleyway as he lowers to a crouch. He hugs his knees to his chest like a child, tears coursing down his face as he shivers and quakes in the rainy night air. He's suffocating, he's sure of it. Running all this way surely hasn't helped matters, but he's choking on air and tears and the maelstrom tearing him apart from the inside.

"_Percival_."

He hears the voice in his ear, sharp and commanding. It's familiar, but he flinches away from it, curling further in on himself.

"_Percival? Perc—… Martin, please_._ I need you to talk to me. Let me know you can hear me._"

Not supposed to use names. They're not supposed to use names, it's why they have codenames. It's why they have them, it's why he's Percival, it's why this has all gone wrong. His chest expands fit to burst with each breath, but he's not getting enough air.

"_Martin, it'll be alright. Just listen to my voice and do as I say._"

Do as I say.

Do as I say.

He remembers those words, remembers sharp, angry eyes. Shouting. Screaming. Broken glass. His face had stung. They'd been so disappointed in him, so very disappointed. He sucks in breath rabbit-quick, his eyes pried open like he's forgotten how to blink.

"_Are you sitting? Sit down, now. It's alright, just sit yourself down. We'll get you through this._"

Not his father's voice. This isn't his father.

"Mer… M-Mer…"

He can't even get the man's full codename out.

"_I'm here, Martin, I'm here. Harry's on his way to bring you home. Don't worry about the mission, don't worry about any of it. Just focus on my voice and let me take care of you._"

Martin sobs. He's afraid. He's failed. He's botched this mission. Is he dying? He thinks he's dying. It's just as well. It's just as well because everything's gone to hell and it's all his _fault_ and oh _god_ he doesn't want to die, please, god, just let him die, just let this stop—

"**_Breathe_**_, Martin. You need to breathe. In and out, now. In… and out. In… and out. Breathe with me, just like this._"

He listens to the exaggerated breaths that Merlin makes over the comm line, trying to coach him into following. Nodding jerkily despite the fact that he knows Merlin can't see it, he does his best to follow the older man's instruction, hiccupping around each lungful of air. It hurts. His chest is on fire and his heart feels like it's going to explode.

"_Good, good. Just like that. You're doing well, just fantastic._"

Merlin stays in his ear, murmuring quiet, soothing things that make this whole situation seem a fraction less hellish. He closes his eyes, shutting them tight and does his best to focus on the sound of their tech wizard's voice. It had never occurred to him how… calm Merlin is. How level he remains. Merlin has been his handler any number of times since he'd joined Kingsman, but this is the first time he's ever really had occasion to focus less on what he's saying and more on _how_ he says it.

The voice coming across the comm line is soft and kind, hardly louder than a whisper and smooth as velvet. The man's Scottish brogue—something which does so much to separate him from the others—stays gentle and even against the dark cloud crackling with lightning and thunder inside his chest.

Let me take care of you, he had said.

Martin had never… It had never really occurred to him to allow anyone to do so. From distant parents to uninterested nannies, he's had to rely on himself for as long as he can remember. He's always done everything on his own, been so independent, he's never actually thought he needs this. He's never _trusted_ anyone with that task and yet, here, now, he finds himself believing every word of what Merlin says to him.

"I've found him, Merlin."

That voice is Harry's. He sounds… worried. Out of breath. Martin opens his eyes only when he feels hands framing either side of his face. He pants as he stares back at Harry's face, the older Knight's warm brown eyes filled to the brim with concern. Martin shivers against the chill of the rainy night, unable to find the words he needs when Harry's hand brushes back the hair that had fallen into his eyes, damp with sweat and rainwater.

"Martin," Harry says, his voice pitched low like Merlin's. "It's alright. I've come to take you home."

Martin nods shakily, hesitantly allowing Harry to pull him to his feet. He wobbles once upright, his legs unsteady beneath him, but Harry ducks under his arm and makes quick work of propping Martin against him. He's so bloody tired all of a sudden…

"_Just make it to the jet, Martin, then you can sleep_," Merlin says in his ear, as though psychic. "_Harry's got your back_."

"…the m-mission…" Martin mutters, teeth chattering.

"Hang the mission," Harry grunts, getting them walking towards a car waiting outside the alleyway. "There will be other missions."

"Arthur…" Martin argues weakly.

"You leave that to us," Harry says stiffly.

As Harry loads him into the passenger's seat, Martin can't help but wonder at the way Harry had spoken those words. His head lolls against the car seat, the flash of passing street lights too bright, too fast, making his heart race, prompting him to squeeze his eyes shut and turn his head away from the window. The dark cloud in his chest crackles ominously, a rolling wave of nausea coming with it, but he doesn't realize his breathing has picked up until Harry's hand comes to rest atop his head.

"Nearly there now," Harry promises.

He hasn't even the strength to nod, so he just stays still and trusts in Harry's word. When they arrive at the jet, Harry all but carries him inside as his head swims and his legs refuse to cooperate. Their Galahad is quick to get him on the sofa and wrapped in all manner of blankets in an effort to quell the tremors which have taken over his body. Martin lies on his side at Harry's insistence, shame beginning to edge into his consciousness as the fear continues to subside.

"Merlin?" Harry says.

"_Here_."

"Stay with him while I fly us back. Keep talking to him," Harry says.

"_Aye_," Merlin answers. "_Will do_."

Martin feels like a child, curled up on the sofa and shaking like a leaf, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. But neither Harry nor Merlin deign to treat him as such, never even hint that their opinion of him has changed in any way. As Harry speeds them back towards Central, Merlin stays in his ear, murmuring slow, soothing things until Martin sinks into blessed unconsciousness.

* * *

The first time he wakes, it's to shouting. His head feels heavy as he turns it towards the source of the noise. Harry and Merlin stand side-by-side before Arthur, arguing vehemently over… something. The mission, most likely. Martin's never seen either of them so positively livid. Harry has been known to mouth off on occasion, but this is the first time Martin can recall Merlin ever so much as thinking of opposing Arthur. Yet there they both are, fair to snarling like angry dogs.

"That's enough of that now."

Martin's view is obstructed by Morgana as she tugs the curtain closed, blocking his line of sight. He blinks sluggishly up at her as she examines him, groaning faintly when she flashes her penlight in his eyes.

"I take it you feel positively rotten," she says, making a few notes on her clipboard.

He nods. She hums in understanding, running her fingers through his hair.

"Well, you'll be alright after some proper rest," she tells him. "Let me see about moving those noisy fools out of here so you can get back to it."

He'd like to thank her. He'd like to say _something_. But as it is, he can barely keep his eyes open long enough to hear her angrily cut through the fierce argument just outside.

* * *

Martin feels markedly better the next time he wakes; still absolutely dreadful, but not as though he were dying, thankfully. He hears quiet conversation happening somewhere around the foot of his bed and once he's properly blinked himself awake, he glances down. Harry and Merlin are engaged in a game of cards atop his shins, one of them seated on either side of his bed. Noticing he's awake, their playful banter quickly comes to a close.

"Percival," Harry says with a smile and a nod of his head. "Glad to have you back with us."

"How are you feeling?" Merlin inquires.

"Awful," Martin croaks, struggling to sit up. "But alive."

"According to Morgana's analysis, you were sprayed with something which is essentially an experimental fear toxin," Merlin says, adjusting the bed so he's upright. "The chemical you were exposed to induced a state of hysteria—uncontrollable feelings of fear, panic, difficulty maintaining a grasp on reality, feelings of dread and impending death."

That certainly sounded like how he'd felt. Like he was being swallowed up. He swallows thickly, nodding his head at what Merlin's told him, feeling queasy and worn. This whole thing has been a disaster. He'd abandoned his mission, run from the place all-but screaming only to hide in an alleyway, sobbing and terrified like a little boy until he could be rescued. Shame wells up inside him like a geyser ready to burst as he replays the events of the previous night over in his mind.

"Arthur must have been—"

"Arthur has been debriefed on the situation," Harry cuts in sharply. "You needn't worry."

There is a curious, heavy silence between Harry and Merlin that tells Martin it all isn't as cut and dry as they're making it out to be. Not after that ferocious argument he'd woken to. He decides to try a different approach.

"You broke protocol to retrieve me," Martin says. "Why?"

The two share a long look before either of them choose to offer him an answer.

"It's against Kingsman protocol to perform an extraction if doing so risks disrupting the mission," Harry says slowly. "We believed your mission had run its course."

"And that expecting you to remain out of fear of compromising any other Knights was… cruel," Merlin adds.

"Compromised," Martin echoes.

"Retrieving you required some effort," Harry says, trying to make the comment as offhanded as possible.

"Galahad," Martin says. He waits until Harry's eyes leave his hands folded in his lap to meet his. "What did you do?"

"What was necessary," Harry answers.

There's more to this. Harry's answer is firm and final, but Martin knows there's something he's not being told, something he may never be told. It's only now that he notices the bandages around Harry's left hand. Had he been injured that night? Martin had been in such a state he was barely aware of himself, let alone other people. What lengths had these two men gone to in order to bring him home?

"You still haven't answered my question," Martin declares.

"What question might that be?" Merlin asks.

"Why?" Martin asks again.

It's a few years before Martin truly understands what Merlin means when he pats Martin's knee and says, "Because some things are more important than propriety."

* * *

Merlin checks to make sure the door to Control is locked before he crosses the room to sit beside Harry on the sofa. He's fiddling with his bandages again and Merlin reaches over to still his hands with his own.

"Enough. It's been taken care of," Merlin murmurs.

"And what of the next time? What then?" Harry demands. "It was nearly Rhodes all over again."

"Harry, those are two completely different circumstances," Merlin reminds him.

"An agent in the field dosed with an unknown chemical weapon and Arthur refuses to do anything about it," Harry growls. "Precisely what makes them so different?"

"We know the risks," Merlin says.

"Don't you start with me," Harry says, bristling.

"No. You listen to me," Merlin says, rounding on him. "We know the risks. Percival knows them, just as I did, and we can't blame anyone for what happens to us just because we suddenly find the rules of the game disagreeable. Don't try to make this out to be that I'm not on your side—you know very well that I am and that I always have been. But you _must_ keep a level head. Alright?"

Harry takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, his shoulders drooping marginally. Some of the tension leaves his body with the simple action.

"You were hardly level when you were shouting in Arthur's face," Harry points out.

"As I recall, I wasn't exactly alone in that," Merlin says, arching an eyebrow.

"No. No, you weren't," Harry says, his hand coming to rest atop Merlin's.

Merlin sighs heavily, turning his hand palm-up to lace his fingers with Harry's. Arthur isn't wrong in that their mission must come first. They've signed up for it. They know this. It's just that in cases such as this, duty to the job becomes difficult to adhere to over duty to one another.

Martin had given himself completely to Kingsman. For his choice to become a tailor instead of taking over his father's company—the position he had been groomed for since birth—he'd been disowned by his parents, struck from the will and burned from the family tree. As far as Mr. and Mrs. Gainsborough were concerned, they didn't have a son. For all intents and purposes, Kingsman is all that Martin has. It's certainly something that Merlin can relate to.

"You and I have been lucky enough to have someone to look out for us. And to have had each other," Merlin says slowly.

"Then perhaps we ought to see to it that Percival has the same luck," Harry says.

A slight smile tugs at the corners of Merlin's lips. He knows that Harry will do so. Their youngest Knight is the quiet sort, stoic and efficient, and Harry wouldn't be Harry if he didn't try to get Percival to warm up to him. Perhaps Harry sees something of himself in Martin, or at the very least feels a sense of camaraderie in their both having distant fathers. Whatever the reason, Harry has taken a liking to Martin in much the same way Merlin has and this incident has essentially finalized their decision to take the newest Knight under their wing.

"Good. Now let's change those dressings," Merlin says.

"Must we?" Harry sighs, sounding entirely put upon.

"You say that as though you don't want me to undress you," Merlin says, already moving towards his first aid kit.

"Mm, point."

"That's what I thought."


	10. Touch

**Sometimes Harry just needs to touch him. (EXCPLICIT) **

* * *

They sit side-by-side on the edge of their bed, listening to the soft patter of rain against the windowpanes. Harry knows Merlin is beyond tired, exhausted from days spent awake and manning his console, but even then he's unwilling to let a few minutes alone with Harry slip through his fingers. Harry lifts a hand, pressing it to his partner's cheek and staring into weary green-hazel eyes. His thumb slowly traces Merlin's jawline, feeling the prickle of stubble against the pad of his finger and knowing the first thing he'll do after some sleep is give himself a clean shave.

He really ought to put Merlin to bed, ought to let him sleep, but instead he leans in and claims the wizard's mouth with his own. Merlin meets him eagerly, lips parting without hesitation. Harry can taste coffee on his tongue and wonders briefly how many mugs he's had in the past few days before licking deeper into his mouth, the thought flying far, far from his mind. They shift closer to one another, hands roaming freely in the safety of their bedroom. The hand that Merlin isn't leaning upon on the bed comes to rest on Harry's thigh, massaging gently, but Harry has plans for his own hands.

Harry reaches for Merlin's belt, long fingers making quick work of the clasp. The clatter of the buckle and sound of the zipper being pulled down feel overly loud in the quiet surrounding them and yet only serve to spur him on. Merlin bites at his lower lip when Harry's hand wraps around his prick, clearly onboard with his plans. Stroking him until he's hard doesn't take long, as even in dire need of sleep, Merlin remains responsive to his touch.

The moment Merlin's hands move to reciprocate, however, he stops. Free hand coming to wrap around Merlin's wrist, he draws back from their kiss, watching confusion make its way to the wizard's sleepy eyes.

"Let me have this," Harry says, just above a whisper. He kisses the corner of his partner's mouth, places another at his jaw, nibbles carefully when Merlin bares his throat to him. He nuzzles at the other man like a great cat, resuming his fondling. "Let me take care of you."

After a brief pause, Merlin's hands draw away, falling back to their previous positions. Harry kisses him deeply, pre-cum slicking his hand as he makes slow, deliberate strokes from base to tip. Merlin is itching to touch him; he can tell by the way the hand massaging his thigh has begun to do so in what can only be described as a desperate manner. But Harry wants this. He wants to touch Merlin uninterrupted, wants to have him, to taste him, to _undo_ him, without bringing his own needs into the matter.

Control is Merlin's strong suit. Having him give it up to Harry so willingly, trusting Harry enough to do that, is a truly heady feeling. Knowing that Merlin can relax here with him and put the worries and responsibilities of their work aside in favor of being here in this moment with Harry makes his heart swell.

They don't speak. Oftentimes they do, when they're together like this—whispering quiet, loving things under the cover of darkness—but on this occasion, Harry finds he prefers the silence. Merlin rests his head against Harry's shoulder, something between a sigh and breathy moan escaping him. All Harry can hear is the sound of Merlin's heavy breathing and the soft clang of the wizard's belt buckle, the beating of his own heart so loud that the rainfall is barely noticeable.

Merlin's hips twitch and he moans again, burying his face in the crook between Harry's neck and shoulder, his hand leaving Harry's thigh to cup the back of his neck. He's panting, his thighs trembling as Harry works him over. Harry slows his ministrations, tracing the vein up the underside of his cock until he reaches the head. He thumbs the slit, smearing pre-cum in a tight, circular motion as it dribbles from the tip. Merlin whines quietly into his shoulder, pulling his other hand from the duvet in favor of clutching at the lapel of Harry's bespoke.

One would think that having Merlin in his ear as often as he does, Harry would be immune to his voice by now. But that's far from the case. He closes his eyes, drinking in every sound that escapes his partner, the knowledge that he had been the one to draw them out of him bringing a possessive sense of satisfaction to curl up in his chest like a dragon upon its horde.

Merlin's breaths come quicker and sharper as Harry strokes him intently, the clink of his belt buckle signifying Harry's determination to bring his partner to completion. Merlin lifts his head to seal his lips with Harry's once again, moving back and forth between kissing him and gasping for air. He kisses Harry like it's preferable to breathing, clutching at him with trembling fingers.

All of a sudden, Merlin stills against him, drawing in a great shuddering gasp. There are a few, breathless moments before it leaves him in a rush as he spills over Harry's fist, fair to clinging to him as Harry works his climax out of him. Harry's eyes are open, watching as Merlin pants and shivers, eyes clamped shut while Harry deliberately pumps his pulsing cock, kissing him slow and wet and loving.

Harry takes his time bringing Merlin down, leading him through a slow decline rather than a sudden crash. Merlin eventually opens his eyes, blinking lazily at his partner with a look of sleepy satisfaction that Harry wants to kiss right off of his face. Instead he brings his hand up between them, licking his partner's cum from his fingers and earning him a moan from Merlin.

The tech wizard pushes forward, pressing his lips to Harry's and tasting himself on his partner's tongue. It takes a great deal of willpower, but Harry gently pushes him back, patting his cheek fondly at the confused expression on his face.

"Sleep," he announces.

"Harry, I'm not going to just sleep after you—"

"_Sleep_," Harry repeats. "You were fair to dead on your feet before I brought you home and I was selfish enough to keep you awake."

"If that's your definition of selfish," Merlin says with a soft chuckle, "I can't imagine what you would consider selfless."

Harry clucks his tongue, shooting Merlin a look even as he begins to unfasten his tie. "Tomorrow, after you've slept. There will be plenty of time for us after you're rested. And believe me when I say you'll be glad you rested beforehand."

Merlin offers him a fond smile as Harry pulls his jumper off over his head. The second it's gone, Merlin's hands are on him, framing his face between them. He may not be long for the waking world, but the look of complete and utter adoration upon Merlin's face never ceases to move Harry, to stir something deep and sacred within him.

"I love you," he says quietly. "I've always loved you."

Harry smiles back, gentle as anything as he reaches for one of Merlin's hands, turning his head so he might place a kiss on the man's palm. "And I you."

He allows himself to indulge in a few more moments of gazing into Merlin's loving eyes before rallying himself. It doesn't take him long to get Merlin out of his clothes and takes even less time for him to fall asleep. Harry changes out of his bespoke, trading it for his pajamas before he slides into bed. Even asleep, Merlin seems to sense his presence as he shifts closer to Harry.

The rain continues to fall outside as Harry rests his head on Merlin's chest, the cadence of his partner's heartbeat and the weather against his window quickly spiriting him off to join Merlin in quiet slumber.


	11. For the First Time

**For the prompt: Could you write a lil fic of Merlahad where like they kiss for the first time?**

**...I took some liberties. \o/**

* * *

The brush of Harry's lips against his own is slow, hesitant. Almost as though he's afraid his advances might not be welcome. It's nothing at all like way they'd crashed into each other in Barcelona, hot and raw and driven. It's nothing at all like the way they'd kissed not even one year ago—the quick peck on the lips being as the summary to a novel. But Merlin kisses him back. It would feel wrong not to.

And besides which, he's _missed_ this. He's missed being able to kiss Harry like it's something old and familiar, missed being able to say his name as though he'd said it, shouted it, screamed it, moaned it, cried it thousands upon thousands of times before.

The Harry they'd brought home from Kentucky had been… different. Memories completely gone save for Merlin's name, Harry had been a blank slate. They've all done their best to work with this—after all, Harry was still alive, after all—but it had been difficult and slow going. There is none of the cocksure, strutting peacock that they all remembered. Harry followed him like a lost child, looking to him for guidance in even the simplest of tasks.

Their relationship of thirty years Merlin had kept to himself. It would be overwhelming, he thinks, to not even know yourself and have someone expecting you to be their other half. Not that he would, but Harry has been so keen on striving towards resembling the man that they all knew that Merlin is certain he would be desperate not to disappoint him. No,there was no need to cause him undo stress. But it occurs to him now that Harry believes himself to be kissing Merlin for the first time, when in fact that event had occurred so many, many years go.

"You're crying."

Merlin snaps out of his own thoughts, blinking rapidly. He brushes a hand across his eyes, his fingers coming away with a telltale wetness. Harry watches him with patient concern before reaching to press a hand to Merlin's cheek. He gazes at him intently, warm brown eyes brimming with earnest worry as his thumb brushes a stray tear from Merlin's cheek.

"Why, dove?" he asks quietly.

Dove.

That had been Harry's pet name for him.

_His_ Harry's.

Merlin's heart stutters. There are still pieces of him in there, somewhere. Now and again they find one; sticking out up out of the sands of his memories, sharp, cracked and jagged like a piece of sea glass not yet worn smooth by time and tide. How many times has Harry suffered as he trod on one unexpectedly? How many times has Merlin been sliced open, desperate to dig one free? Regardless, they're few and far between. Merlin's not sure he'll ever remember the man he once was, but moments like these give him hope. Harry's alive. He'd survived. That's what matters most. They can work with the rest, but what matters is that he's here. So Merlin shakes his head, patting the other man's knee in an attempt to allay his fears.

"It's nothing. Just work, is all," Merlin claims.

The look he gets in return tells him that Harry isn't sure he believes him. Why should he? It's a flimsy excuse. But when Merlin leans in to kiss him again, he's apparently content to let the matter rest. It's better if he doesn't know, Merlin thinks.

Valentine's bullet had stolen nearly all of Harry's firsts from him. This one, at least, Merlin can give back.


	12. In a Bind

**For the prompt: prompt if you're interested: merlin/anyone you like, with his partner exploring gender expression and merlin being supportive**

**I switched it up a bit. This story _does_ have Merlahad (as well as Percilot), but they're background elements. I decided instead to make the focus on Merlin and Roxy–that is, in a mentoring sort of relationship.**

* * *

"I'm fine, really," Roxy says again. "Just wore myself a little thin."

"You fainted, Rox," Eggsy is quick to remind her. "Lucky thing you didn't crack your skull wide open."

Merlin watches quietly from the edge of the gathering as Roxy is fussed over by everyone present. Barring those out on assignment at the moment, her little mishap has drawn all of them here to the medical wing. And how could they not? What with the way Eggsy had been throwing a fit you'd have thought she'd been about to breathe her last.

"A bit of dehydration and too much sun is all," Morgana declares, cutting through the chatter. Roxy seems relieved that she's chosen to step in and offers the older woman a look of immense gratitude. Just as quickly, however, Morgana's stern gaze is turned on Lancelot. "And it won't happen again, will it?"

"No, ma'am, it won't," Roxy assures her, shaking her head.

Although Merlin is content to sit and watch James continue to fuss over his niece while Martin attempts to rein him in, apparently Morgana has other ideas. She appears at his side, clipboard held formally in front of her as she addresses him.

"Merlin, I'd like to have a word with you in my office," she tells him. Her voice pitches lower as she adds, "About your medication."

He doesn't need to look up to confirm that Harry's eyes are on him. Morgana had spoken quietly, but not quietly enough for her words to escape Harry's ears. If he didn't know any better, he'd say she'd done this on purpose. But he nods all the same, following after her as she leads him towards her office. She closes the door behind them and, to his great surprise, locks it.

"Mags?" he intones questioningly.

"I didn't want the others to be suspicious of my pulling you away," she says, motioning for him to take a seat by the coffee table.

He does so, settling his own clipboard across his lap as he watches her put a kettle on. It was as good an excuse as any—if she needed to get him alone, mentioning it had to do with his medication would be the thing to do it. He feels a bit cross with himself for that brief moment of hope at her words, thinking that perhaps she'd had some sort of breakthrough. Really, he should have known better. Rhodes will not leave him so easily. After all these years, he's grown used to his condition, but that doesn't mean he wouldn't jump at the opportunity to be cured of it.

"I'm sorry if you thought I had some sort of news for you," Morgana admits as she settles into her seat, pushing a plate full of biscuits towards him. "Perhaps that was a bit cruel of me."

He waves a hand, dismissing the idea. "It had barely crossed my mind."

She eyes him disbelievingly and, as always, he withers under her gaze.

"It's fine," he says instead.

"Mm. How are your pain levels recently?" she asks.

"Fine. The medication does its work," Merlin answers.

"You're due for an examination soon," she reminds him.

"What was it you needed to see me about?" Merlin asks, eager to change the subject.

Morgana sighs, the look on her face telling him this conversation isn't over. But for the time being, it seems she'll put it aside in favor of answering his question. Just not until he takes a biscuit. Rolling his eyes with a smile, he plucks one off the plate and waits.

"I wanted to speak to you about Roxanne," Morgana says.

"About the incident today?" Merlin queries.

"That's part of it, yes," Morgana tells him. "I've told them all it was dehydration and sun, but that's not the whole truth of it."

Her words send a jolt of fear shooting up his spine. Immediately, his imagination begins conjuring any number of unpleasant scenarios and he feels his worry for Roxy suddenly increase tenfold. He leans forward in his seat expectantly, giving Morgana his full attention.

"I've noticed as of late that the supplies in my store room haven't been matching up with my inventory," Morgana informs him. "I've come up short every month."

"And what supplies have you been short on, exactly?" Merlin asks, his tone heavy.

"ACE bandages," Morgana says pointedly.

Merlin frowns, knowing he's meant to understand something here. After a moment of quiet contemplation, his eyebrows shoot above the rims of his glasses in surprise. He's embarrassed it had taken him even that long to understand.

"Oh. _Oh_," Merlin murmurs.

"Mmhmm," Morgana hums in agreement.

The kettle chooses that exact moment to begin shrieking, leaving him alone with his thoughts as she rises to see to it. His mind is wrought with questions, not least of which is why Morgana had specifically chosen to pull _him_ aside in regards to this matter. James and Martin are Roxy's uncles, her family. They're as open minded as any of them. So why not tell them?

A steaming cup of tea enters his vision, pulling him from his musings. He offers his thanks as she resumes her seat, cradling her own mug and watching him carefully.

"So Roxy has been binding with ACE bandages," Merlin declares. "And I'm assuming she was doing so during her jog and that's the reason she fainted."

"Indeed," Morgana confirms. "Clearly she's not keen on anyone finding out, so I've elected to keep the matter between her and myself."

Merlin quirks an eyebrow at that, prompting Morgana to roll her eyes.

"And you," she adds on impatiently.

"And you've opted to include me because…?"

"If Roxy chooses to keep this to herself, she is entirely entitled to do so," Morgana says slowly. "However, as her physician, I consider it my duty to see to it that, in the future, if she's going to be binding that she's doing it properly. That's why I've asked you here."

The more Morgana says, the more Merlin understands, and by the time they've finished off their tea, he knows exactly what needs to be done.

* * *

Merlin takes his time. He waits until all the others have cleared out, until the quiet shroud of night has descended upon the medical wing, before he approaches their young Lancelot. He knocks on the door, waiting patiently until he receives a call to enter. Though she greets him with a smile, he can see that Roxy's eyes are red and puffy. The thought that the situation had driven her to tears tugs at something in his chest, claws at an old, familiar wound. Not the same as hers, perhaps. But similar enough.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, lingering by the door.

"Fine," she says, a little too quickly. "Morgana's keeping me overnight as a precaution, but she says I should be fine to leave come morning."

He nods at her response before gesturing to the vacant chair by her bed. "May I?"

Roxy hesitates, seeming curious about the question and perhaps wary of what it will bring, but she nods all the same. Merlin crosses the room in languid, long-legged strides and settles himself into the chair, watching her all the while. Only Roxy isn't watching him. Her eyes remain focused on her hands as she plucks at stray threads on the blanket which covers her.

"I was wondering if we might have a talk, you and I," Merlin says conversationally.

"I don't see why not," she answers, though her gaze remains decidedly anywhere but him.

"I'd like to talk about what happened today," he continues.

She doesn't answer. He takes a slow, deep breath and continues on.

"I know the reason why you collapsed on the track this morning," he says, his voice pitched low despite the fact that he knows no one is around to hear them. "And I know why Morgana's stock of ACE bandages has been low every month."

Her head is bowed forward, but he can see her lower lip trembling. He doesn't say anything more, thinking she might like to say something herself, but instead he hears a quiet sniff just as he sees wet droplets beginning to appear on the blanket.

"Oh, no, no, Roxy, I didn't mean it like that," he says gently, mortified that he'd made her cry. "You've nothing to be ashamed of. I'm not here to accuse you of anything or reprimand you in any way. Morgana and I are simply concerned."

"She promised she wouldn't tell anyone," Roxy says, swiping a hand over her eyes. "What would everyone think if they knew? I'm supposed be to be a Kingsman and I'm…"

"Perfectly normal," Merlin assures her. She looks up at him questioningly, eyes wet. Eggsy and Roxy are both young, yes, but it's not often that Merlin thinks of them as being as young as they are. "Try not to be too cross with Morgana. She only told me because she thought I might be of some help."

"…help," Roxy echoes.

"Yes," Merlin affirms. He shifts in his seat, hands folded as they hang between his knees. "Our situations may be different, but I remember very well what it was like being young and queer and terrified of both those things. I remember what it was like to be those things when it wasn't _safe_ to be them."

"You're, um…"

"Gay."

"I mean, with Harry, I knew you had to at least be bisexual… Uncle James and Uncle Martin both are… but I didn't want to assume," Roxy stammers, rubbing at her eyes. "To be honest, I don't know precisely what I am."

"And that is perfectly alright," Merlin says reassuringly. "Genders, sexualities, these things can change."

"I know. I know that, I do, it's just… difficult," Roxy says haltingly.

"Which is why, if you'll allow me, I'd like to take you to meet with some people," Merlin says. "People I've known since before I joined Kingsman whom I've kept in touch with over the years."

"What sort of people?" Roxy wants to know.

"All sorts," Merlin chuckles. "The thing of it is, how I grew up, you tended to find safety in numbers. You just sort of… drifted towards each other."

Roxy nods her head, but falls silent once more. It's a lot to process, he knows. Today has likely been one of the more difficult days in her recent memory—and that's including her Kingsman training and V-Day. Not wanting to overstep his boundaries but still feeling compelled to comfort her in some way, he reaches out and rests a hand on her shoulder, squeezing fondly. Roxy may have graduated from her Kingsman training and earned herself the title of Lancelot, but he still very much considers her his charge. As he does Eggsy and James and Martin. He'd trained them all and regardless of how far they've come or how long it's been since, he will always think of them as such.

"I've made some phone calls and cleared up some schedules and they've agreed to meet with us tomorrow, if you'd like," Merlin tells her. "The choice is entirely yours, but at the very least I'd like to see to it that we get you a proper binder and that you're aware of the correct ways to use one. There are so very many ways you can hurt yourself by binding improperly and I don't want to see a repeat of today. Or worse."

"I understand," she responds. "Only, Merlin? Do you suppose you might keep this to yourself?"

He leans back in his seat, drawing his hand away. "Of course. This is yours to tell. If and when you want to is up to you."

"Then I think I'd like to take you up on your offer," Roxy says slowly.

"I'm glad to hear you say that," Merlin says.

And he is. But more than anything, he's glad that when he offers her a smile, Roxy smiles back.

* * *

"Merlin? Are you busy?"

Merlin looks up from his desk to see Roxy standing in the doorway. He pushes away from his work station, motioning for her to come in.

"I think I can afford to take a short break," he says as he locks his monitors and rises from his seat, stretching. "What can I do for you?"

"I wondered if you'd eaten yet and whether or not you might join me for a late lunch," Roxy says, approaching him.

"Late lunch? What time is it?"

"It's nearly half past two, Merlin."

Merlin looks to his watch in surprise, only to find she's entirely right. He rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed that he'd let time get away from him like this yet again. Sometimes he has to wonder who is looking after who, given the frequency with which one of them has to come remind him that he should do things like, say, eat or sleep.

"So it is," he declares.

She laughs at his expression. "I thought you might have forgotten. You've been terribly engaged with that MP3 player of yours."

"I've nearly worked out how to house a grenade and a taser in one without blowing up the user."

"Please don't blow yourself up."

"If I do, it will have been in the pursuit of improving our arsenal and bettering my own skills. Superior to one's former self, Lancelot."

"I don't consider a pile of ashes superior to yourself at present," Roxy says with a smile as they depart.

It's been weeks since they'd spent that day out together and he finds that, since then, he's seen a marked improvement in her mood. They haven't talked much of it since, but perhaps a simple bit of reassurance that there was nothing at all the matter with her had been what she truly needed. He's given her space, not wanting to pry or hover, but if he's being honest with himself, he's been concerned. Still, they haven't had any incidents like the day on the track, so he should be thankful for that, at least.

"I've been talking to some of the others," Roxy says, interrupting his thoughts.

"Oh?"

"Yes," she says with a nod, walking slowly beside him. "You know… it feels strange. The first thing Eggsy did was apologize if he had used the wrong pronouns and ask which ones I'd like and to ask why I hadn't said anything because he's apparently got plenty of friends back home who are trans and genderqueer and apparently very much like the people you introduced me to."

Merlin smiles.

"My uncles were… Well, Uncle James immediately started pulling up articles on gender expression like he'd been waiting his whole life to do so and Uncle Martin seemed a bit mortified by that, but said if I ever needed anything specially tailored that there would be no shame in asking. They said they just wanted me to be comfortable as myself."

Merlin's smile grows wider.

"Harry assured me that, as he's now Arthur, any sort of intolerance or harassment would not be tolerated within Kingsman and that if anyone ever made me feel uncomfortable, I should report it to him straight away. He said he would deal with any such matters personally."

Merlin's smile grows wide enough that he's certain he must be running out of room for it on his face.

"And now I feel a bit foolish for having hid it at all," Roxy admits.

"In a perfect world, Roxy, you wouldn't have to," Merlin says. "But given that it's not, and given that intolerance is alive and well, you've no need to feel foolish. You were scared of being hurt by the people closest to you—that's a fear we can all relate with, even if we all experience it in different ways."

"And Merlin?"

"Mm?"

He barely has time to prepare before he suddenly finds Roxy's arms wrapped tightly about his middle as she attempts to squeeze the life out of him. Her face is buried in his jumper but he doesn't believe she's crying. Slowly, he returns her embrace, patting her back lightly.

"Thank you," comes her muffled voice. "I don't think I ever properly said it. I needed help and I didn't know where to turn for it and you were brilliant. I've never been so comfortable in my own skin and I don't think this could have happened if you hadn't taken me out that day."

Merlin stares down at the top of her head as she hugs him tightly. No, she's not a child. But she _is_ young. Still so very, very young. He remembers himself at that age, remembers his friends, remembers how lost they'd all been. She may thank him, but Roxy has done this all on her own. She's come through this by her own strength. If they'd simply managed to point her in the right direction, well, he could be happy with that much. He hugs her back every bit as tightly as she hugs him.

"It's my duty to see to it that all our Knights are taken care of. I consider that my personal and professional responsibility and I take it very seriously," Merlin tells her. "If you ever have a problem, Roxanne, you can come to me. I can't guarantee that I can _fix_ it, but you can come to me all the same."

What should be a very tender moment is suddenly interrupted by his stomach growling loudly. Roxy's shoulders quiver as she laughs into his jumper before pulling back to look up at him, grinning broadly. She brushes away a few stray tears as clears his throat.

"Merlin, do you _ever_ remember to feed yourself?" she asks him with a chuckle.

"No, he doesn't."

They both glance up at the sound of Harry's voice, though Merlin groans when the man places a smug kiss on his cheek.

"Wizards require regular feedings, no matter how much work they have," Harry declares. "Lancelot, excellent work on prying him away from his desk."

"Happy to help, sir," Roxy answers, smiling.

"Everything else going smoothly?" Harry asks her.

The way he leans in towards her, seriousness in his features despite his pleasant smile, tells Merlin precisely what he's referring to. The exchange brings a subtle warmth to his chest; a happy little ember at seeing the progress Roxy has made herself and the progress Kingsman has made in moving forward.

"Yes, it is, sir. Thank you," she says.

"Excellent. We'll be sure it stays that way," Harry says, patting her shoulder. "Now, is this a private engagement or might I be permitted to join both of you?"

"I'm tempted to go eat alone," Merlin grumbles.

They tease him the rest of the way, but for the price of seeing the smile firmly in place on Roxy's face, Merlin decides it's well worth it.


	13. Lean On Me

**For the prompt: i srsly need a merlahad fic of merlin helping harry heal from some sort of injury, preferably one where they've never dated or kissed or anything before :) thaaaank**

* * *

**[CENTRAL, 1984]**

Merlin has steadily acclimated to his position in these past nine months, although losing the former Merlin so suddenly had been something of a shock. It isn't as though he hadn't known it was coming—quite the opposite. After all, Old Merlin's aneurysm had been the very reason the young Scotsman had been permitted to join Kingsman. So he'd been expecting it, yes, but he doesn't think he's the only one who had thought of the eventuality of Old Merlin's condition to be some far off event in the future rather than something in the here and now.

Merlin may have spent a relatively short while under his tutelage, but the loss has struck him hard all the same. The old man had been kind to him, if a firm teacher, and though it's only been a week he feels the loss keenly. This doesn't stop him from going about his duties, however, which have grown more numerous in the wake of Old Merlin's passing.

Just when he feels he couldn't possibly have any more to do, life goes and proves him wrong. Of course it would come in the form of Harry Hart—if Merlin has learned anything it's that the youngest of the Knights has a knack for getting himself into trouble. So when he spies Galahad pausing to lean heavily on the wall of the corridor he's passing through, Merlin thinks nothing of it to check on him.

"Something the matter, Galahad?" Merlin asks, venturing closer, clipboard in hand.

"No, no, nothing the matter," Harry is quick to say. "Just stopped to think is all."

Were it any other time, Merlin might have accepted that excuse—Harry had a tendency to linger in the halls, lost in thought when the mood struck him. It's often why he was so very late to appointments of any kind. Today, however, presents a different case. Whether he'd been startled by Merlin's appearance or was just that intent on covering something up, he turned rather quickly on his heel to meet Merlin and this proved to be to his detriment. Merlin takes a few hurried steps forward as Harry totters unsteadily and manages to grab hold of the Knight's arm before he tips right over.

"Nothing the matter, then?" Merlin grunts, keeping him upright.

"Well… perhaps something is a _bit_ off, now that you mention it," Harry admits, one hand scrabbling for purchase at the molding on the wall.

"Just a bit," Merlin says, his tone flat. "Come on, let's get you to Morgana so she can sort you out."

"That's where I was headed," Harry grumbles, not protesting as Merlin all-but carries him down the hall, despite his unhappy tone.

"Don't be sore just because I caught you," Merlin tuts. "You should have just asked someone for help."

"I don't _need_ help," Harry huffs.

Merlin doesn't answer that as they slowly limp along, knowing that anything he says will be with a dose of sarcasm that would be… improper. So he bites his tongue and focuses on getting them to the medical wing. He's surprised, though, when Harry seems to nearly read his mind.

"Alright, I do need help," he admits. "I simply… didn't _want_ it—could we stop? Just for a moment."

Merlin, perplexed by the admission, just then notices that Harry's gone rather pale. The young man's eyes are pressed shut, against what Merlin can only assume is dizziness or nausea. Without question, he does as Harry asks, bringing them to a full stop and herding him towards the wall.

"Lean on me, alright?" Merlin says. "Take your time and breathe."

Harry doesn't seem to have much of a problem with this idea. If anything, Merlin's efforts to keep Galahad upright must look more like an embrace than anything else—Merlin's arms are looped securely around the Knight's waist as Harry rests his head on Merlin's shoulder. Despite its clinical purpose, it feels anything but, especially not when Harry turns his face inward. A shiver travels the length of Merlin's spine at the sensation of hot puffs of air tickling his throat.

Briefly, he wonders if Harry has any idea what he's doing to Merlin as he practically nuzzles the young wizard like the great cat he's shown himself to be. It hardly does anything to help Merlin hide his ever-growing attraction to the other man. Merlin had found him exceedingly attractive the first time he'd laid eyes on the other man, but it was the fact that Harry had come after him when he'd failed to secure the title of Gawain that had molded simple attraction into something decidedly more complicated.

Merlin constantly reminds himself not to read too much into any of Harry's actions regarding him. Yet, time and again, he finds himself reviewing their interactions and wondering. Harry is a natural charmer, of course, and so often he tries to convince himself that's simply the case; that any apparent attraction, any spark between them, has been conjured entirely by his overactive imagination, fueled by his own wants and desires.

Whatever he may think or want, he knows well enough to keep it to himself. None of them know, after all, and he's sure Kingsman would frown very heavily upon his particular _perversion_. What with the AIDS epidemic and all this talk of a 'gay plague' he's smart enough to keep to himself. He likes Harry as a person—though they are not quite close enough that he would call them friends—and he hardly wants to invite the other man to look at him like he's something that was scraped off the bottom of his shoe. He knows all too well the cost of outing oneself.

But those thoughts are for another time. There are more pressing matters at hand; namely the young man three years his senior who is leaning on him as though his life depends on it.

"Galahad?" Merlin says questioningly. "Are you alright?"

"Nn. I believe so," Harry answers. "Enough to make it the rest of the way, in any case."

He still sways unsteadily as Merlin helps him straighten, but some color has returned to his cheeks at the very least. More worrisome, though, is the fact that his eyes don't appear to focus on Merlin.

"What exactly happened to you, Galahad?" he asks as they continue their journey.

"I fell," Harry proclaims, clearing his throat.

"And hit your head rather soundly, it would seem," Merlin notes. "How on earth did you manage that? I thought you weren't on assignment."

"No, I, ehm… Well, it's rather embarrassing," Harry mumbles. "I was taking Mr. Pickle out and he happened to catch sight of a mouse. He ran, I chased. I didn't see the patch of ice around the corner. Luckily the back of my head broke my fall."

Merlin hisses in sympathy. "Aye, that'll do it."

"And unfortunately, I believe I'm rather concussed," Harry says.

"I believe you're right," Merlin agrees. He feels a wash of relief when the doors to the medical wing are within reach. "Fortunately for you, Morgana seems to be back from her lunch break."

"I'll steel myself for a lecture, then," Harry says with a grimace.

In the end, Morgana simply seems to treat this as par for the course Harry Hart, but warns him to be more careful in the future. She proceeds with her examination and, although Merlin knows he isn't required to stay, he can't seem to pull himself away. He sits in the corner, mentally stockpiling all the work he should be getting done instead of sitting here, but remains regardless. Morgana opts to keep Harry overnight for observation—something which simultaneously relieves Merlin and upsets Harry.

"It's only one night, Harry," Morgana says with a cluck of her tongue. "You act as though I run some sort of medieval torture chamber."

"No, no, it's just that I've left Mr. Pickle alone," Harry proclaims.

"I could see to him," Merlin says.

He wills his face not to flush when Harry looks to him—or attempts to anyway—with raised eyebrows.

"I wouldn't mind looking after him for the night. We already know he gets on with mine," Merlin clarifies, clearing his throat. "If you'd like."

"It would be an enormous relief to know he was with someone I can trust," Harry answers.

Don't read too much into it, Merlin reminds himself. When he offers the other man a short smile and a nod, he swears Morgana is watching him closer than need-be… but he pretends not to notice. If she suspects something, she certainly doesn't say anything about it, instead leaving them be with the excuse of needing to see to something in her office. After obtaining Harry's address and the location of the spare key, Merlin rises from his seat to excuse himself, knowing he's been out of Control far too long as it is.

"I have to get back to Control, but Mr. Pickle will be well looked after while you're away from home," Merlin says, holding his clipboard in front of him. "I hope you're feeling well soon, Galahad."

"Harry."

It's as he's about to make for the door that the name stops him.

"You needn't always call me 'Galahad,' Merlin," Harry explains. "'Harry' will do just fine."

"We're given codenames for a reason," Merlin points out.

"That's true, yes, but we're hardly in the field right now," Harry says. "I think it should be alright between friends."

"Is that what we are?" Merlin asks, arching a brow curiously.

"Perhaps not," Harry concedes with a thoughtful hum. "More acquaintances than anything. Though, I would like for us to be friends. Would you, Merlin?"

Merlin can't help but feel as though he's walking into a trap. But if he is, he doesn't feel especially concerned with avoiding it.

"I believe I would like that a great deal," Merlin says with a nod of his head and a small smile.

"Friends, then," Harry says holding out a hand.

"Aye," Merlin says with an amused chuckle, shaking the proffered hand. "Friends."

Merlin has friends, has had friends in the past. This is nothing new, yet it feels like… something more. As he leaves the medical wing, he can't help but feel he's being watched. When he glances towards Morgana's office, he finds the door open. The older woman's keen gaze is focused on him, betraying no hint at what she might be thinking and yet giving him the impression that she can see straight through him. Offering her a polite nod, he continues on his way, eager to escape her watchful eyes. The fear of being found out sobers him somewhat, drawing him out of his elevated mood.

He mustn't read too much into things, he reminds himself.

They're merely friends, after all.

Just friends.

And that's how it must stay.


	14. Homecoming

**This chapter is a follow-up to one of my previous chapters, "Fallout" which you will find published in this collection. That chapter is a follow-up to another story, published by my writing partner on AO3. You'll find the relevant links posted in "Fallout." Given that these three are a linear narrative and a divergence from Canon, you'll want to read those first before you read this one.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

It's been nearly two hours since they'd arrived home. Nearly two hours since Morgana had taken her patient behind the doors he finds himself standing before and nearly two hours since he'd dismissed Roxy and Eggsy to get some rest. Though he's not moved from this spot, he's hardly been idle—all the while Gawain has been bringing him updates on their progress in freeing Valentine's prisoners and securing the compound. They're all that's left. Of all the Knights, it's only himself, Gawain and Roxy who have survived V-Day. All the others were either sided with Arthur and killed or lost in the line of duty. Their bodies will need to be recovered and given a proper burial.

_Harry_ will need to be recovered.

The thought makes his chest tight with the heavy weight of the emotion it incurs. First they'd lost James, now Harry, and unless luck is on their side, they stand to lose Merlin as well. The four of them have fallen back on each other so often over the years in times of hardship that Martin finds himself at a loss for what to do now that it's only him.

He considers himself a fine Knight, but the mantle of leadership is not something he had ever cared to consider taking up. (He'd left the path of taking over as head of his father's company to become a tailor, after all.)Harry or Merlin, he thinks, are far better suited to the task. Even within their little foursome, when things became particularly dire, he and James had always looked to the other two for direction. Harry and Merlin had been in the game longer than either of them, and that was part of it, but the pair always seemed to carry an air of authority that he and James never strived for.

Now, however, he finds himself alone; without Harry's strength, without Merlin's patience, without James's levity.

_"Percival."_

Martin's head twitches to the side at the sound of Gawain's gruff voice. Gruffer than usual, in fact.

"Here, Gawain," he responds smartly, tapping the side of his glasses.

_"Any word?"_

On Merlin, he interprets.

"No. Not just yet," Martin says, staring straight ahead at the doors before him. "How is the evacuation progressing?"

_"Fine. All going very smoothly."_

Martin frowns to himself. Something feels … off. Gawain is being evasive, stalling for time. Whatever he needs to say, it's not something he wants to.

"Alright, Gawain, out with it. What's gone on?" Martin asks.

There's silence on the other end of the line and as it stretches on, Martin has to wonder what could be so terrible that even Gawain is at a loss for words.

_"Martin, I'm switching to visual. You may want to sit down, if you're not already."_

Whatever it is, he's sure it can't be anything worse than anything he's already seen today. He's right on this count. It's not worse. It's simply that he's not sure how to process what he's seeing.

When Gawain switches to visual, Martin prepares himself for some sight of gore or the like, but what he gets is … James. At the very least, it looks like James. Haggard, yes; in desperate need of a shave and a haircut, yes; lacking his flamboyant attire, yes; but still James. Or perhaps just a very clever lookalike.

_"Sorry to have kept you waiting, darling. The service here has been atrocious."_

No. No, not a lookalike. Not with that ridiculously smug smile which … which seems to have frayed at the edges but is still very much the same as he remembers. He feels hot. His eyes sting. His knees wobble. Blindly, he gropes for the door, his fingers latching onto the handle just before his legs fail him. With a hand pressed to his mouth, he gasps in breaths which are more sobs than anything else as tears stream down his face.

"How?" he manages to say.

_"It's … It's a very long story,"_ James says, exhaustion weighing heavily on his features. _"I'd prefer to only have to tell it once."_

_"I'm bringing him back now. Morgana will want to give him a thorough examination,"_ Gawain supplies.

James groans at that, pulling a laugh from Martin that borders on hysterical. James has always been a terrible patient—every bit as bad as Harry—and it's appropriate somehow that even now he vocalizes his displeasure at the thought of a trip to the infirmary.

"Always such a terrible patient," Martin says quietly, his voice choked with tears.

_"Martin …"_ James says softly, worriedly.

"Come home. Just … come home and we can talk," Martin says, wiping at his eyes. "Just come home, James."

_"Gladly,"_ James replies.

_"We'll be back within the hour, Percival,"_ Gawain informs him.

"We'll be waiting," Martin tells him.

The feed goes dark, but Martin does not rise. He knows he must, knows he has to tell the others, but for a few brief moments, he stays where he is and lets it all crash down on him.

* * *

It had taken some doing to convince Roxy that he hadn't snapped under the pressure of the day's events and gone completely mad. In fact, even after he's talked her down, he thinks she still believes him to have cracked right up until James appears. Wearing a lopsided smile and nearly being carried by Gawain, he's a pale comparison to the James they all know and love, but he's James none-the-less. It takes all of ten seconds for Roxy to rocket down the hallway and nearly crush her uncle with her embrace.

"Ooh, ooh, not so tight," James complains, still looking to be in good spirits all the same.

"They said you were dead," Roxy sobs into his shoulder. "You've been gone for _months_. There was a funeral and mum was beside herself and you just … "

"I'm sorry," he says, patting her hair. "I'm so sorry, Roxanne, if I could have come back a minute sooner …"

Martin has inched ever closer while this scene has unfolded, his steps tentative, as though James were a mirage, destined to disappear should he draw too near. But then he's standing before him and those green eyes are boring into him and it's all he can do not to fling himself at his longtime partner as their niece had done. Still, his embrace is likely not as gentle as James might have liked; though he hardly seems to mind when Martin kisses him hard enough to bruise. All the same, getting him sat down and drinking a glass of water is something of a priority, given that he looks dead on his feet.

The tale James spins them is a simple one, though judging from the tight look of control on his face, Martin is certain a great many details have been omitted.

He'd come close to dying—had his reflexes been a hair slower, he'd have been sliced in two. As it was, Gazelle's strike had sliced him open nearly from sternum to navel as he'd twisted to meet her. By all means, he was as good as dead, lying on the carpet soaked through with copious amounts of his own blood. But instead of finishing the job, as he was sure she would have liked, she made the curious decision to have him removed. He doesn't know how he managed not to bleed out before receiving medical attention, but when he next awoke, it was in a hospital bed, the garish wound stitched and stapled and patched up quite neatly.

That was when he'd met Valentine. He was a charismatic man, to be sure, but James knew a threat when he heard one. They'd kept him alive because they wanted information; who he was, who he worked for, how he'd found them. Of course, he didn't give it to them. He was a Kingsman, after all. Oddly, Valentine didn't seem especially bothered by this.

It was only later, after he'd healed significantly enough to be transferred to a regular cell, that he understood why. If Valentine couldn't get what he wanted by asking politely, he had Gazelle to get it for him through … less than gentle means. For the next few months, he served as her plaything. Usually she only visited his cell to try and get information from him, but there were other times when he was certain it was just out of boredom. Sometimes it would be days in between her visits. Sometimes only hours. Always, always, they would patch him up when she was through, making sure he would be alive and well when she next paid him a visit.

"Until today when, apparently, you lot saved the world," James concludes. It's only now that he seems to have noticed Eggsy at all. "I'm sorry, you are …?"

"Eggsy," Roxy mumbles into his shirt.

"Eggy?"

"_Eggsy_," she repeats, with a watery laugh. "He was Harry's proposal for your title."

Martin takes that moment to make a slight addition. "He's Lee Unwin's boy."

"Unwin? Really?" James asks, incredulously. He looks back to Eggsy, his countenance serious as he studies the young man. "I knew your father. He and I were the final two candidates for the title of Lancelot. He was a good man." He pauses, nodding his head firmly before repeating softly, "Good man."

"Yeah, well, guess failing the final test runs in the family," Eggsy says, shrugging one shoulder awkwardly.

"Ah. Couldn't shoot your dog," James says, nodding sagely. "You're a man after Merlin's heart. Speaking of, where is the old goat, anyhow? After all this, I suppose we're going to have to pry him out of Control with a spatula."

The mood in the room takes a sudden nosedive. Martin nearly curses Gawain—who had ducked out immediately—for failing to bring James up to speed, but given the circumstances, he thinks it may be best coming from him.

"Merlin's in with Morgana," Martin says tightly. "He's in a bad way, James. The reason she hasn't seen you yet is because she's been with him for the past three hours."

"Three— … What the hell happened to him? He's supposed to be in Control, I don't understand," James says, looking completely bewildered by the concept of Merlin coming to any harm.

"Arthur happened," Roxy says venomously. "Merlin had something—some code of Harry's—and he had Gazelle try and work it out of him."

James stares at his niece, silent and unmoving. No doubt hearing that his tormentor had nearly killed one of his good friends has rattled him. Martin watches as his eyes light up with a sudden thought.

"Where's Harry?" he wants to know. "If Merlin's in that sort of state, the poor fellow's got to be in knots."

It feels like a punch to the chest—blunt, radiating pain that steals his breath away. Martin can't find the words to explain. Or perhaps he just doesn't want to have to say it. Silently, he reaches out and rests his hand atop his partner's. His lips are drawn into a thin, angry line as he swallows thickly and shakes his head. James can only stare. He stares at Martin as though he's got three heads. Harry Hart? Dead? Ridiculous.

Or at least, it always seemed that way.

"Christ, Harry," James breathes out.

He slumps in his seat. Whatever emotion he'd kept at bay, whatever he'd managed to keep locked down, it's all gone to shit now. James had been hurting when he'd arrived, but he'd arrived thinking he would be coming back to his friends. Perhaps that's what had kept him going all those months. The reality of the situation is far less kind.

"Christ, Harry," he echoes, softer this time.

James doesn't want to break down here. He's the sort that always has to maintain that vibrant, gung-ho persona. No, giving in to emotion here simply won't do. Martin can see he's fighting it with everything he's got, but when you've got nothing left it's really not much of a fight. Watching tears fill his eyes prompts a similar reaction in Roxy. They've each got one of his hands and as he bows forward, shoulders bunched and trembling, he squeezes them with more strength than Martin thought he'd have left.

Martin leans in, pressing his lips to the former Lancelot's temple, running his fingers through shaggy, greying hair. He'd fantasized about James coming home hundreds of times since they're pronounced him dead. But not like this. No, never like this.

"I'm so sorry, James," he says, his tears evident in his voice. "I'm so sorry we didn't come for you. I'm so sorry we didn't find you. I am … so, so sorry."

"Here you all are."

Morgana's voice pulls them from the moment. Exhaustion is the theme of the day as she stands in the doorway, eyes taking in the scene wearily. Her expression is bone-tired, but difficult to read.

"How's Merlin? He's alright, yeah?" Eggsy asks hopefully, shooting up from his seat.

"I've done everything I can," Morgana answers stiffly.

Martin feels his heart sink. Coming from Morgana, a statement like that is dangerous. If she's done everything she can, but won't say a word about Merlin's condition either way, that doesn't bode well for their wizard. She crosses the room slowly until she comes to a halt before James. Her expression eases into something gentler as her hands reach out to frame his face, her thumbs brushing against now-tearstained cheeks. She gazes down at him like a mother seeing her son returned home from war. They aren't her children, no. She never knew them as children. But in the softness of her eyes, Martin knows she's remembering just how young they had been when first she saw them.

"Let's take care of you, James," she says.

Martin doesn't need to be prompted; he rises from his seat, ready to assist. With Morgana at one elbow and himself at the other, they slowly guide James out the room and towards the infirmary. There's no protest, no joking, not even the barest hint of a smile. James walks silently between them, his expression hollow and vacant, and that, Martin finds, frightens him more than anything.

* * *

It's late when Morgana finally allows him in to see James. He'd spent the wait coordinating with Gawain and watching over Merlin. Even now as he pushes the door to James's room open, he can't shake the image of the unnatural rise and fall of Merlin's chest with each breath mechanically pumped into his lungs. Even now he feels a prickling sensation at the back of his neck as though that rise and fall will cease if he's not watching. Roxy and Eggsy had insisted on seeing Merlin for themselves, though he's not sure what good it's done them. Roxy had sat at the wizard's bedside, wringing her hands anxiously while Eggsy had hovered in the doorway as though he might invite death in with him were he to come any closer.

They've finally gone off to bed after he'd dismissed them—again—and with the added incentive of Morgana's decision to allow only Martin to see James. For a brief moment, Martin had seen hurt flash across Roxy's features, but it was quickly tucked away and replaced by an understanding nod of her head. Catching Morgana's gaze, Martin knows that there is no pressing medical reason behind this—it's something that James has requested himself. If James doesn't want Roxy to see him, then Martin knows it's bad.

Still, when he enters the room, the former Lancelot seems calm enough. He perks up considerably at the sight of Martin, sitting himself up in bed, and even in the midst of such a horrible situation, Martin can't help but smile.

"Roxy?" James questions.

"Gone off to bed," Martin assures him.

"Good," James says with a slow nod. He looks up. "And Eggy?"

"_Eggsy_, James," Martin corrects him.

"Mm. I like 'Eggy' better," James hums.

"Yes, I suppose you would," Martin says fondly. "He's gone off to bed as well."

"Separate beds?" James fishes.

Martin rolls his eyes, sitting at the foot of his partner's hospital bed. "They're not in that way. Roxy is, to quote the man himself, his 'bruv.'"

"Well, either way, she knows what she's doing," James says. He hesitates, his hand rubbing the opposite forearm. "And Merlin?"

"I don't know," Martin sighs tiredly. "Morgana says it's a matter of waiting now."

What determines whether he makes it or not at this stage, he wonders? Morgana had done everything medically possible and he's still here, if only just. So what else is there? Is it willpower? Is it some stretch of the consciousness that science doesn't yet understand? At the back of his mind, he wonders if they're enough for Merlin to come back for or if the shattered remains of Kingsman are less enticing than chasing Harry into whatever comes after this.

"Tomorrow may tell us more," Martin says, in an effort to change the subject.

He doesn't make mention of the flight which had brought them here, when he'd been stained up to his wrists in Merlin's blood as he'd desperately tried to keep as much of it in him as he could. The first time he'd seen Merlin injured had been Martin's first assignment and Merlin's last. There had been a lot of blood then, too. More this time. Enough that he had to wonder how there'd been any left in him at all. James reaches out, his fingers plucking at the cuff of his shirt sleeve—he'd given himself time to change, at least—and tugging minutely towards him. The motion cuts through his thoughts, through the weary shroud draped over him, and reminds him that he has James again. Here, now, alive.

Although not built with two people in mind, Kingsman's hospital beds are a bit roomier than what one might find in a standard hospital, and so it's not terribly difficult for the two of them to lie together. James tucks himself in close to Martin's side, fair to clinging to him like a limpet on a rock. There's no worry now of Arthur walking in and finding them like this—small comfort in the face of the day's events, but a comfort all the same.

"I kept thinking," James says suddenly, "about how we never went to Bora Bora."

"I did, too," Martin admits. His eyes wander to his partner's chest, to the clean, vertical scar visible from the deep neck of his pajama top. He rests his hand there, feeling raised scar tissue beneath his fingertips. "You always talked about going and all I could think was that we never did. And never would."

"We could now. We _should_ now after all of this gets sorted out," James says.

"We will," Martin says, his hand sliding along the left side of his partner's chest, under his shirt. He stops when he feels the rhythmic thud beneath his open palm, feels a soft sigh from James as he counts heartbeats. "I promise you that."

James loops an arm around him, squeezing tightly. He buries his face in the crook of Martin's neck and inhales deeply. Martin relocates his hand to his partner's hair, stroking gently as James lies silently pressed against him.

"I missed you," James says suddenly, the words somewhat muffled as they're spoken into his shirt. "I would wake up and I would roll over and it would always occur to me that the pillow didn't smell like you. It was … rattling. I know we never spent the night with each other often, not with Arthur, but the smell of your aftershave always lingered when you did. I started to forget what that was like. And I thought, even if I ever made it back, you'd've thought me dead for god knows how long and I couldn't assume you'd—"

"James," Martin says, cutting him off. "There wouldn't have been anyone else."

"You can't say that with certainty," James murmurs. "People … People move on from those sorts of things, in time."

"There wouldn't have been anyone else," Martin repeats, firmer this time.

James just holds him tighter, quivering silently.

"Martin."

"Yes?"

"What do we _do_?"

He's never heard James sound so … small. So frightened and unsure. Martin doesn't know what they'd done to him over the course of the months that he'd served as Valentine's prisoner. Part of him doesn't _want_ to know, burns red hot at the mere fact that James had suffered so long. This damage—for he is damaged—will take time to fix. These hurts will take time to heal. Even then, he knows James will come out on the other side of this a different man. After all, this sort of thing changes you irreparably. But he's here now and Martin has faith that James will find a way to move forward, just as they all must. It won't be easy, but none of them are exactly the quitting sort.

So he doesn't know precisely what they're going to do. But when he presses a kiss to the top of James's head and holds him in his arms, he believes every word when he says, "We'll think of something."


	15. And Many Happy Returns

**[CENTRAL; 2010]**

"You were quiet tonight," Merlin notes, slipping into the driver's seat.

"Mm," Harry hums.

The sound isn't so much agreeing or disagreeing as it is simply acknowledging that Merlin's said anything at all. He fastens his seatbelt and glances towards Harry, who seems more interested in staring out his window than anything else. Turning the key in the ignition and shifting the car into gear, he begins the drive that will take them to Harry's flat, wondering if perhaps that quiet has something to do with today's date. Or more specifically what that date means for Harry.

Today is Harry's fiftieth birthday, something which saw the rarity of most of them being gathered in one place to celebrate. Of course James had done what James does best, which is namely reminding Harry and Merlin that they've got one foot in the grave and are soon to be dust. Merlin's grown used to it; James has been calling him an 'old goat' since they'd met and he'd only been thirty-five at the time. It was all very lighthearted of course, and typically Harry was always ready with a witty retort of his own, but tonight seems to have turned that on its head.

"You're not taking anything that James said to heart, are you?" Merlin questions, his eyes on the road before him.

"Not exactly," Harry says haltingly.

Merlin snorts a laugh. "Harry, we're getting old. Just accept it."

"All well and good for you at forty-seven," Harry huffs.

"Oh, don't. It's three years' difference, that's hardly anything at all," Merlin says.

"The point is," Harry says, shooting him an exasperated—but fond—look, "we _are_ getting older. Fifty for a normal man is not the same as fifty for a Kingsman. I'm simply wondering how much longer I will be viable as a field agent. Ten years? Fifteen at a stretch? And then what? I don't very much like the idea of being useless."

Merlin drums his thumbs against the steering wheel. "Being pulled from the field doesn't make you useless."

"That's not … I'm not like you, Merlin," Harry corrects him, seemingly regretting his choice of words. "You arguably have the broadest skill set of any of us, but a hunting dog is only good for one thing. So what do you do with a hunting dog who is too old to hunt?"

"You take him home," Merlin answers smartly.

A grin twitches at his lips when Harry flicks his ear. "_You_ take him home. I was speaking in regards to the rest of the world."

"Well, animal cruelty laws have come a long way—"

"Now you're just trying to change the subject."

Perhaps he is, but he doesn't think he can be blamed. He doesn't care to see Harry like this and, as much as he would claim otherwise for his partner's sake, being declared unfit for field work is not a happy affair. It's a concern he understands, though he believes Harry is selling himself far short. Harry has always displayed an immense aptitude for leadership and rarely fails to garner the respect and admiration of those around him. Perhaps Merlin's getting ahead of himself, but Arthur will hardly be around forever, and when he's gone there will need to be someone to replace him. Not as exciting as field work, perhaps, but a way in which Harry's skills would be best put to use.

Harry shifts in the passenger's seat, arms folded over his chest. It's clear that despite the lighthearted detour, the idea still bothers him immensely. This isn't just because of a birthday or James's teasing—this is something Harry's been dwelling on for some time. It's just that tonight it's been made visible.

"You're thinking much too far ahead," Merlin tells him.

"We should do our best to prepare for the future," Harry reminds him.

"Yes, that's true," Merlin agrees. "But in doing so, you shouldn't let the present get away from you."

Harry makes another one of those noncommittal hums in response. Merlin sighs, wondering if there's anything he can do to pull the Knight out of his mood. Leaving one hand on the steering wheel, he reaches across the console with the other and gently squeezes his partner's knee.

"There will come a time when you're too old for the field. And when that comes, you will hate that fact. You will resent your limits. You will be jealous of those who take the field in your place. Those are all normal, completely acceptable responses," Merlin says slowly. "I understand wishing to be prepared, but Harry, you won't be. No matter how much you do now to prepare yourself for that moment, you won't be ready when it comes. So focus on now. You've got plenty of good years ahead of you yet."

Harry doesn't make a sound, doesn't respond to him in any way apart from resting his hand atop Merlin's. The remainder of the drive is made in silence, the roads dark and clear and quiet due to the lateness of the hour. Moments like these are rare, Merlin reflects. When they can be together, completely alone, in the quiet. Moments when it's still. Peaceful. He wishes Harry would get out of his own head long enough to enjoy it with him.

Not that he doesn't understand; no, he understands all too well. But it worries him to hear Harry speak of himself in such a manner. Regardless of what he's said, he's frightened by the eventuality as much as Harry is. The other man thrives in the field, lives off of it. Having that taken from him will be … difficult to accept.

They arrive at Harry's flat soon enough. Though, Harry seems caught off guard when Merlin kills the ignition, unfastens his seatbelt and reaches into the back seat for a bag.

"What are you doing?" Harry asks him.

"Getting my things," Merlin answers easily enough.

"You intend to stay the night," Harry fishes.

"Unless you'd rather I didn't," Merlin says, settling back in his seat.

"You know very well that I would greatly prefer it if you did," Harry tells him. He hesitates, teetering at the edge of what he wants to say before diving into it. "But there's a reason we don't. You know that."

"I'm well aware," Merlin answers.

Harry sighs, twisting in his seat to better face his partner. "Merlin, I won't have you earning Arthur's disapproval just because it happens to be my birthday. I've had plenty of them and I will have plenty more; it's not worth you getting into trouble over."

"Every single person in that room heard me say that I was taking you home. Arthur already assumes we're going to shag like mad until dawn so if he's going to be cross either way, I'd prefer to actually earn it," Merlin declares, settling his bag in his lap.

" … shag like mad until dawn, you say?"

"Don't pretend like you didn't hear anything else," Merlin says, shoving his face away as Harry grins at him. "But in all seriousness, if you'd prefer to be alone—"

"I wouldn't," Harry says, grabbing hold of his wrist before he can pull his hand back. His thumb strokes Merlin's wrist, gently gliding over his pulse point. "Stay. Please."

They don't say much as they abandon the car in favor of Harry's flat. It's not like in their younger years where articles of clothing are lost along the way to the bedroom. It's a slow, quiet procession from the front door to the bed, stopping only to turn out a light and hang up their coats. The frantic, hurried trysts of their youth are far in the past as they take time undressing one another; fingers touching, hands caressing as though they haven't studied each other intimately a hundred times before. Their lovemaking is slow and deliberate in ways that only more recent years have allowed them to be and when they've finished, they simply lie together in the dark, in the quiet.

It used to be by this point that Merlin would be stepping into his pants while Harry smoked a cigarette—or the reverse—and the concept of neither one of them needing to leave remains foreign. Good foreign, Merlin thinks, and he lies on his stomach, chin propped on his pillow as his arms lie crossed beneath it.

"Well, it wasn't madly until dawn, but I think that should be enough to properly disappoint Arthur, don't you?" Harry asks.

He lies on his side, absently running his fingers up and down Merlin's spine, prompting the wizard to close his eyes and hum contentedly.

"Give it a bit," Merlin says. "We can disappoint him further."

"Oh, dove, now who's in denial about their age?" Harry chuckles. "You're half asleep already."

Merlin rolls onto his side to face Harry, an amused smile tugging at his lips. Well, perhaps he's right. They're really not as young as they used to be. Neither of them seems to mind just lying here, occasionally leaning in for a kiss when either of them feels the need for one.

"How did you do it?" Harry asks him suddenly, as Merlin's nearly drifting off.

"Hm?"

"When Arthur pulled you from active field duty. How did you deal with it?" Harry clarifies.

Merlin blinks slowly, studying the man lying beside him. He has been in love with this man for over a quarter of a century. It hasn't always been easy and they haven't always been together in that time, but it was always there. He stares into Harry's eyes—the color of warm chocolate in the daylight, turned to deep, dark, bottomless pools in the night—and though they may not be young men anymore, those eyes remain the same as they were when he'd stared into them in Barcelona all those years ago.

"I had you," he says quietly.

Harry blinks, the worried lines in his face smoothing out at Merlin's response. Wordlessly, he props himself up on his elbow and leans down to capture his partner's mouth in a kiss. Merlin's fingers drag through his hair as though to try to pull him in closer, as though they could never be close enough. They've aged, yes, but as they eventually drift off to sleep, wrapped up in one another, there are no complaints on the matter.

* * *

Merlin sits at his desk, eyes scanning his monitors, left hand tapping rhythmically at his keyboard as he sips from his mug. Last night had been … well, one of the better night's sleep he's had in quite some time. Judging from Harry's energy this morning, it would seem that he shares in that sentiment. Still, as his ears detect the door to Control admitting someone, he knows the mood can't last. Arthur was bound to come 'round to see him eventually. Hearing the man's footsteps drawing near, Merlin can't help but tense.

"Good morning, Arthur," he greets.

"Good morning, Merlin," Arthur returns. "Already reviewing the latest files from Berlin, I see."

"Yes, sir," Merlin answers. "I should be finished in … perhaps an hour."

"Excellent," Arthur says. There's a brief interlude of silence where Merlin prepares for the hammer to fall. "Galahad made it home safely last night."

"Yes, sir."

"Mm. Well, don't forget we have a meeting at two-thirty; I'd like you to have a condensed form of the Berlin files ready for the Knights to review."

For a moment, Merlin can't do much more than sit in a stupefied silence. That's it? No subtle punishment? No attempt to put him in his place for having dared lie with Harry? No reprimand of any kind? It's unheard of.

"Merlin?" Arthur intones, eyebrow raised curiously.

"Er, yes ... Yes, sir, of course," Merlin recovers, answering with a nod of his head. "I'll have it ready."

"Good. And tell Galahad the meeting is at two o'clock. He might actually show up on time that way," Arthur says as he turns for the door.

"Will do, sir," Merlin says faintly.

Even after Arthur's gone and Merlin is alone in Control once more, he finds it difficult to rally himself into action. That had been, without a doubt, one of the most peculiar exchanges he's had in his entire life. He's not foolish enough to think Arthur's gone soft in his old age—he knows better than that. He starts when he hears the door once more, only this time it's not Arthur who's come to visit, but Harry.

"Galahad," he greets.

"I take it from the look on your face that Arthur has already visited you," Harry says as he approaches.

"He's only just left," Merlin answers. His eyes narrow suspiciously. "What would you know about that?"

"I may have … had a word with him," Harry admits, slipping his hands into his pockets.

"Harry," Merlin sighs impatiently.

"Listen, just a moment," Harry says, halting any further protest. "Last night was something I needed. And no, I'm not talking about the sex—though that was, as ever, very much to my liking. I needed … you, Merlin. I needed you with me, to tell me it would all be alright. Perhaps that may sound ridiculous to you, but it's all been weighing very heavily on my mind and I suppose … I just needed to hear those things from you."

"It's not ridiculous. Not in the slightest," Merlin assures him. He sighs, looking up at Harry from his chair. "But you shouldn't have spoken to Arthur. You're just going to make more trouble—for both of us."

"We came to a sort of understanding," Harry tells him. A grin twitches at his lips. "It was my birthday, after all."

"You didn't," Merlin says. "You can't honestly tell me you talked Arthur into overlooking this just because it was your birthday."

Harry ducks his head, staring down at his shoes.

"Merlin, I can't have you throwing yourself on the proverbial sword each and every time we want to be with one another," he says quietly. "It's why I was hesitant for you to stay last night. But as you said, he would've known either way. I can't _always_ stop him from doing these things and believe me, I find it … immensely frustrating and distasteful beyond words. But if I can stop him, I will. And on this occasion, I could, so I did."

There are a million things Merlin could say to that, but he chooses just one: "Thank you, Harry."

They both know the imbalance in their relationship with Arthur is not so easily corrected. Whatever fondness Arthur has for Harry is not something Merlin will ever know. There are so many things that go on between Arthur and Merlin that Harry isn't aware of, even now. But Harry had done this for him and—for whatever reason—Arthur had chosen to go along with it. Merlin clears his throat.

"There's a meeting today at two o'clock," he says. "Don't be late."

"Don't patronize me, I know it's at two-thirty."

"_Don't be late_."

Harry shoots him that boyishly charming smile that says he very well will be before leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. Merlin turns his head, catching him on the lips and earning a pleased hum in response. Yesterday had been Harry's birthday, but as he kisses the man now, Merlin can't help but feel as though he's the one who's received a gift.


	16. Three Hail Marys and a Hallelujah

**A/N: This fic comes AFTER "Absolution" ( archiveofourown dot org /works/3812251/chapters/8658874) but before "Solstice" (archiveofourown dot org /works/3812251/chapters/8964001) and "Springtime" (Chapter 8 within this fic).**

* * *

**[CENTRAL, CONTROL ROOM; 1993]**

To the casual observer, nothing about Harry's mission in Belfast had been out of the ordinary. It had started, proceeded and ended smoothly; all according to plan. Yet despite this, Merlin has found himself unnaturally restless in both mind and body since its conclusion. Harry and Martin are both due back shortly—after two days spent interrogating Cleary—and for Merlin they can't return soon enough. Still, as he hears the soft blip of the security system allowing someone entry into Control, followed by the unmistakable sound of Harry's footsteps approaching him, Merlin almost wishes for more time.

Not that he's sure it would do him any good. Supposing he had more time, what would he do with it? Find some impossible way to steel his nerves? More than likely, he'd find reasons to stop himself from what he's about to do. No, it's better that this happens now.

"Welcome back, Galahad," he says, eyes still on his monitors. "Well done with Cleary."

"Thank you, Merlin," Harry says in acknowledgement, his voice coming from just behind and to the left of Merlin's chair. "Another late night for you, I take it?"

Merlin breathes in deeply. "No, actually. I've wrapped up any loose ends with the Cleary case and—at least until tomorrow—I don't have any pressing matters to attend to."

He doesn't say that he'd worked feverishly over the past two days to free up time this evening, but somehow, without even looking the man in the eye, he thinks Harry knows this. There's a brief bubble of surprised silence, which is burst easily enough.

"That's a change of pace," Harry remarks lightly.

"Yes. It is," Merlin says.

"You might even get a full eight hours of sleep. Imagine that," Harry adds, amusement ringing clearly in his tone.

"I suppose," Merlin says slowly. He hesitates, but Harry doesn't budge. Perhaps after a decade of having known each other he can tell when there's something more that Merlin wants to say. Knowing he can't very well sit in this limbo forever, Merlin swivels his seat around to face the other man and gazes up at him with his hands folded in his lap. "But I was wondering if perhaps you might join me for a drink."

"A drink," Harry echoes.

He watches Merlin with a look of soft perplexity as the wizard nods. Although it has evened out considerable in the past year, their relationship has been strained since '86. Since Rhodes. They haven't met each other outside of work like Merlin is proposing since then. Despite this, Harry takes the offer in stride and, after a moment of brief consideration, he inclines his head in a nod of his own.

"I'd be glad to join you."

Merlin doesn't need more of an answer than that. Quickly shutting down his monitors and locking up his work station, he rises from his seat and the two of them depart in silence.

* * *

The first pints come with idle chatter and typical pleasantries. There is a reason they're both here tonight, but sobriety stays their tongues on the matter and keeps them engaged in discussions of assignments and the progress of their young Percival and whatever gadgets Merlin is currently tinkering with.

It's only after Merlin has more than a few drinks under his belt—and a considerable portion of the patronage has left the pub for the night—that he finds his lips speaking the words he'd come here to say, all before his mind thinks better of it.

"I'd like to make a confession."

Harry looks to him with a snort of amusement, fingertips holding the rim of his glass as he twists it in place on its coaster.

"Well, I'm afraid Father Hart has retired," he remarks. "But whatever it is, I'm sure it can be solved with three Hail Marys." He makes a wonky sign of the cross in mid-air, quite amused with himself. "Go in peace and all that."

"Harry," Merlin says gently.

At once the smile fades from Harry's face as he realizes they've come to the moment at last. Leaving the safety of the shallows, they tread towards deeper water and he settles into his seat, preparing himself for the conversation at hand.

"Why is it you asked me to join you tonight, Merlin?" he asks.

"Because I've been a fool," Merlin answers immediately. At Harry's prompting look, he inhales deeply and tried to remember the practiced speech he'd carefully pieced together in the past two days. Coming up short, he cobbles together what he can and throws himself into it. "What happened with the Rhodes assignment… happened. I've come to terms with it. Mostly. But what I never took time to do was to see where my fault lied in all of this. And I _am_ at fault. I was."

When he pauses to wet his lips, Harry doesn't interrupt.

"I was angry that you'd gone back and done something so insanely stupid for my sake. I still stand by my opinion on that matter. But I never thanked you, did I? For saving my life. I never once thought to thank you for it," Merlin murmurs. "That mission left us both angry—albeit for different reasons—but in the end, _I_ was the one who pushed _you_ away. And for that, I'm sorry." He frowns and shakes his head before looking up to meet Harry's gaze. "Then came the incident this past year, when I was pulled from the field. I was so determined to be alone with my anger and my frustration and, despite the fact that I had done nothing to earn your consideration in those five years prior… you wouldn't let me. And I didn't… I still _don't_ know what to make of that."

Merlin finishes off his pint, if only because he can't stand waste. Harry, on the other hand, sits back in his seat, his attention focused entirely on Merlin and what remains of his drink untouched.

"I'm not seeking penance or absolution or forgiveness. I know I can't fix this," Merlin says, rolling his empty glass between his hands. "I just wanted to…" He frowns, having second thoughts about the night's drinking as he struggles to put to words what he feels. "Well, I just wanted you to know."

Harry doesn't say anything for a very long while after Merlin's finished. He slowly finishes off his drink in silence as the cry of last call comes and the remaining patrons—the ones that can still stand, in any case— begin their lazy shuffle towards the door. He knows he's just dropped a great deal in the other man's lap and that it will likely take time for him to process, but he'd be glad if Harry would say anything at all at this point.

"We should be getting on," Harry says at length.

Merlin tries not to feel too hurt by the comment. After all, if he were in Harry's place, he's not sure what he would say. But he worries he's done more harm than good in asking Harry here tonight. Too little too late, perhaps.

"Right," Merlin says, rising. "I'm sure they'd like to lock the place up and get on home themselves."

So they settle their tabs and make for the exit, the lights inside going dim not a moment after they step foot outside. Though they're coming into spring, the nights are still rather cold and Merlin shrugs deeper into his coat to escape the chill as they stand together at the side of the road. A few beats of silence pass before Merlin clears his throat.

"Thank you for coming out tonight," he says simply. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Why are you going that way?" Harry asks him.

"My flat," Merlin says. He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. "It's this way."

Harry's head tilts just so as he blinks slowly at the other man. "So it is. Still… walk with me?"

Merlin stands rooted to the spot for a moment. "…alright."

They walk side by side at a slow, leisurely pace, saying nothing at first. Merlin doesn't particularly mind, despite his anxiety as to what Harry may be thinking after he'd spilled his feelings in a manner reminiscent of reaching across a table and knocking someone's coffee into their lap. Clumsy, that's what it had been. The pub had been a bad idea. He really should have done this sober. But _would_ he have? Ah, now that's the question.

"Do you really not know why I came to you?" Harry asks suddenly.

Merlin looks up quickly, tripping over the curb in his haste. "Sorry, what?"

"When Morgana diagnosed—… When Arthur pulled you," Harry says, changing his phrasing mid-sentence. "You must know why."

"I wasn't certain," Merlin admits.

"That I still cared for you?"

"I hadn't given you much reason to," Merlin reiterates.

"Merlin," Harry says with an exasperated, if fond, sigh. "Caring for someone isn't about… It's not about keeping score. You don't earn points. It's not a game."

"I know it's not a _game_," Merlin says hotly. His hands ball into fists in the depths of his pockets, though he wills himself not to get riled up. "But we didn't have a tiff, Harry. We had the sort of falling out that generally causes people to move on from one another."

"And did you?" Harry asks him. "Move on, I mean."

"I believe you already know the answer," Merlin tells him.

"So then why should it be so very perplexing for you to come to find that I hadn't either?" Harry asks him.

"Because people move on. It had been five years and I hadn't given you any reason—"

"Merlin, I don't need a reason!" Harry interrupts impatiently. "That's the whole _point_. Is it that difficult for you to believe? Or is it that you're so used to people coming in and out of your life that you refuse to even consider that someone just might care to stay? You won't even give me the chance to show you that I do, you just… just… decide all that for me, don't you?"

Merlin, for the life of him, can't even begin to formulate a response. He's not sure which angers him more: the fact that Harry had decided to play psychologist or the fact that he's probably right. Not even probably. Growing up in an orphanage meant people came and went. Working for Kingsman often—unfortunately—meant the same. He'd learned very early on in his life that caring for others was all well and good, but oftentimes others couldn't be counted on to do the same. If he was wary of people's intentions as a result of this, well, at the very least he hid it well. Except when it came to Harry. Somehow, Harry knew the location of all his buttons and had no qualms when it came to pushing them. But tonight, Merlin isn't in the mood to be poked and prodded.

So instead of saying anything, he walks. As with so many things in his life, rather than face the problem head on, he decides to avoid it all together. Just like when he'd changed his name, just like when he'd dropped out of university, just like when he'd been asked to shoot his dogs. Without so much as a word, he turns away from Harry and cuts through an alleyway, intent on heading back to his flat. This had clearly been a mistake. A moment of weakness. Regardless of whether or not they cared for one another, it had been foolish of him to think they could mend this bridge; the chasm between them had grown too wide to cross.

"Christ… Merlin!" Harry calls after him. "I didn't mean to imply—… _Merlin_."

"Goodnight, Galahad," Merlin says stiffly.

"Oh, don't you 'Galahad' me," Harry huffs jogging to catch up. "Merlin, stop. Just listen to what I have to say."

"I think we've said everything that need be said," Merlin says, his steps growing quicker. "This was my mistake. I apologize for—"

"No."

Merlin's surprised when Harry's hand closes around his wrist, halting his progress. Looking back towards the Knight, he attempts to tug it away, only to find that the other man's grip stays firm. He pulls again, harder this time, inadvertently tugging Harry towards him in the process. His temper already bubbling, he finds it's the last bit of encouragement he needs. What follows this is neither coordinated nor dignified as they all but wrestle each other in the alleyway, and he's sure they're a sight to see—two drunken men struggling to get a hold on one another as much as they struggle to remain upright. They continue on like this up until they've both run out of fight and breath and Harry has Merlin pinned against the brick wall. Well, more to leaning against him and using his weight to keep Merlin—who's not in much a state to push him off—in place than anything else.

"Get _off _me," Merlin pants.

"No," Harry pants right back. "Look, now, you've had your say… let me have mine."

Although he's tempted to give it one last try to throw him off and be done with it, Merlin can at least acknowledge that he's said a great many things tonight. Harry should be afforded the same opportunity, much as he'd rather retreat to his flat and try to sleep this off. He meets Harry's request with stony silence, which—considering Merlin is no longer attempting to throw him—Harry takes for acquiescence. Once he's caught his breath, he proceeds.

"You asked me out here tonight because you wanted to apologize," Harry clarifies. "But you did so intent on taking the blame for this situation entirely upon yourself and I _do not appreciate_ your continued attempts to martyr yourself for the purpose of conflict resolution." He squeezes Merlin's arms. "We were both at fault and you _will not_ take that from me, do you understand?"

He refuses to continue until Merlin acknowledges this with a nod. Merlin does so, if hesitantly, unsure if he wants to know exactly where this conversation is headed.

"What I said just now, back there in the street… well, it's true, though I could've been kinder about it, I suppose," Harry says. "Except you do that an awful lot, you know. Not that I don't understand _why_, just that… Do you know I've spent much of the past decade trying to find some way to prove to you that I do, in fact, care for you every bit as much as you care for me?"

At Merlin's silence, he shakes his head.

"What happened with the Rhodes assignment was, for me, unthinkable. The very idea of allowing you to suffer for hours or days while that toxin slowly killed you, all for the sake of our assignment… I couldn't," Harry says, his grip tightening on Merlin's arms. "You were angry then. Angry that I may very well have cost us our chance of breaking up that human trafficking ring, angry that I'd risked my own life for yours. You were angry with good reason, I understand that now. Just as I hope you understand my own anger in the matter and that, if given the chance to do it all over, I wouldn't change it. We should have attempted to fix this a thousand times before now and that we didn't means I am every bit as at fault as you are."

Merlin blows out a harsh breath. "I was the one who caused this in the first place."

"From your perspective, perhaps," Harry says. "From mine, the blame appears to be divided rather evenly." He draws back from Merlin, testing to see if he'll make a run for it and, pleased to find the wizard seems to have no inclination towards moving, gives him some breathing room. "Looking back, it occurs to me that I would have waited another decade if necessary, if it meant we would resolve this. I don't know why neither of us attempted to before now."

"Because you're a proper emotionally repressed Englishman and because if avoidance were an Olympic sport I'd've done my country proud by taking home gold?" Merlin offers.

Harry chuckles softly. "I suppose there is that."

The sound of loud popping chased by shouts startles both of them. Harry steps forward, pressing Merlin into the brick wall once more as they both tense in preparation for some sort of attack. It turns out to be teenagers, setting off bottle rockets and chasing each other through the street. Harry sighs in aggravation, muttering about teenagers under his breath but not budging despite the false alarm. It's not the sweltering heat of Spain—not even close—but Merlin can't help but be reminded of Barcelona. He can't help but remember the way Harry had pulled him into that alleyway, pressing him into the wall and kissing him senseless with the flimsy excuse of a cover to explain it. Almost as though he'd read Merlin's thoughts, Harry turns his head and smiles. They're close enough that their noses nearly touch, each warm puff of Harry's breath tickling his lips.

"Well, this certainly takes me back," Harry says.

"I was just thinking the same," Merlin admits.

"Merlin," Harry says, so softly that even this close Merlin has difficulty hearing. "I'm sorry. For all of it, for letting it go on this long, for not retrieving the antidote sooner—"

"That was never your fault," Merlin says quickly.

"And yet if I had, perhaps you wouldn't be in the position you are now," Harry remarks.

"Harry, I'm fine. I'm managing quite well now," Merlin reminds him. Well, he's managing better than he had in the beginning, in any case. "There are still plenty of things I can do from Control. And it gives me an excuse to keep an eye on you."

"There's no one I'd rather," Harry says.

They lapse into silence, though it's anything but uncomfortable. Still, they can't very well just stand here, inches from each other's faces. They've taken a step forward tonight, Merlin thinks, though they're far from calling this fixed. There will be several more long talks before that happens. But as he stands with his back to the wall, Harry's eyes focused entirely on him, he has to wonder if he thinks they've done more repairing tonight than they have as he closes the gap between them, pressing his lips to Harry's. Though, apparently not, as Harry kisses him right back, a soft groan escaping him as though he'd been waiting for this moment.

They're hardly better than the teenagers that had just run by—standing in a darkened alley, kissing and groping like they're anything but two drunken men in their thirties. Christ, he's missed this. The kissing and the touching, yes, but more than that, just having Harry this _close_. He's missed having Harry pressed so far into his personal space that it could hardly be considered his any longer. He's missed the feeling of Harry's arms around his waist, missed the feeling of Harry's hair between his fingers. He's missed the sound of Harry's throaty chuckle as he pushes off the wall, flipping them so that Harry is now pinned beneath him.

"I've missed you," Harry says, nuzzling his jawline. "Is that strange? I've seen you nearly every day and yet I've missed you more than I can say."

"No. No, it's not strange," Merlin assures him.

"After tonight… I have no intention of sleeping alone," Harry declares. "Will you come with me?"

"Much as I share in that sentiment… I don't know if going back to yours or mine would be wise," Merlin says, much as it pains him to do so. "It's far enough either way that we can't exactly claim one of us was too drunk to head to our own home."

"You're right in that," Harry murmurs unhappily. "Although… the shop isn't far from here."

"The shop," Merlin echoes. "That's practically under Arthur's nose."

"But Fitting Room 2 isn't," Harry reminds him.

Ah, Fitting Room 2. Also known as the Panic Room. A bed, a shower, soundproofed walls and—most importantly—no recording devices of any kind. Merlin could almost laugh at the utter gall of such a suggestion, but then, that's Harry Hart for you.

"We couldn't find a cab and it was too far to walk back to either of ours, so we returned to the shop to sleep off a night of celebratory drinking for a job well done," Harry says. "Suppose it could work?"

Looking into Harry's eyes, Merlin can see that he has no plans for sleeping. Given the way they've treated each other for the past six years and the way tonight had gone… Merlin isn't presently concerned whether it will work or not. In fact, right now, he'd be hard pressed to give a damn. It's as good a plan as any.

"I suppose there's only one way to find out," he says.


End file.
